The Last Warlord (Formerly That Which is Valued Most)
by deaconrayne1
Summary: As the Fifth Blight unfolds events are manipulated and conspiracies are born. The pieces are set and the game begins as Wardens and Champions, Templars, and Mages are all manipulated by a newly-revealed player. His morals ambiguous, his plan diabolical, and his genius undeniable, none but he knows how the game will end but all in Thedas shall feel its effects for all ages to come.
1. Chapter 1

That Which is Valued Most.

Dedication: Special thanks to Roo Bailey for her invaluable input on demonology, blood magic, and other arcane matters. And a big shout-out to my awesome editor Mandi J for all her input and support.

Prologue

9:30 Dragon.

_I give you that which I value above all in this world. _

Flemeth closed the door, resting her head upon it. For a moment, ages of weariness bowed her shoulders as her parting words echoed in her memory.

And then she caught a scent and her eyes opened, gleaming and dangerous.

"I don't suffer trespassers lightly," she stated, "Less so those who see fit to enter my home unbidden."

She felt more than saw the man's smile.

"Nothing enters the Wilds without your knowledge; I should thank you for disabling the most lethal of your wards."

Flemeth turned to face the man; he stood just over six feet, possessing gray hair and of about fifty years in age, as humans go. He was of solid build with a leanness to him that lent the impression of a predatory animal. The dimly lit confines of the small hut cloaked the remainder of his features in shadow. A dim light flickered from a long pipe.

"I am not amused," Flemeth replied coolly.

"No, but you are curious or else I would be dead."

The old witch gave a short laugh, "You presume to know me so well?"

"I only presume to know that you do not exterminate that which may prove useful, which is why I am still alive."

Flemeth's face relaxed slightly, "Are you hungry? My daughter was making stew before her unexpected departure."

"Unexpected for her," the man stepped into the light, "Or for you?"

A pair of long white strips of fabric crossed over his eyes at an angle, concealing them from view. The remainder of his face bore the weight of his years well, marked only by slight lines around the mouth and presumably his eyes as well.

"Little is unexpected to me, but every now and then life manages to surprise even an old crone like me."

"I'm sure. Though if you would be so kind…dispense with the illusion. It's distracting and the 'harmless old hermit woman' countenance does you little credit."

"There are times, my friend, when there are more important things than credit but very well," Flemeth raised her hands above her head and brought them down. Her drab robes were replaced by purple mail accentuated by heavy armor and an ornate headpiece.

"Better?" She ran her metal talons through her long white hair and peered at him with yellow eyes: the only feature that had not changed.

"Thank you. It was giving me a headache."

Flemeth reached out and touched the man's temples, tracing the outline of the lengths of fabric that masked his eyes.

"Are the visions getting worse?" she asked with a touch of matronly concern.

The man smiled slightly, "Yes, but Vyrantium Samite is working much more effectively than the others. Things are not quite so…bright."

"You see too much, old friend."

"A curse we both bear, wouldn't you say?"

Flemeth laughed, "Come and let me make us some tea. I have a blend of elfroot and Prophet's Laurel that should be of some assistance."

"Prophet's Laurel? I was under the impression that it could only be found in Orlais."

"There is a small grove of it to be found to the north along the coast, if one is willing to brave the giant spiders and constant rain."

"Or you could simply have acquired the seeds and grown your own."

Flemeth smiled again as she poured the tea, "I'm glad to see that not all of my lessons were wasted on you."

"'Whatever you give your opponent is what they will use against you,' " the man sipped the tea, "A lesson on the dangers of overestimation."

"Yes, though I'm not certain I took the time to thoroughly educate you on the dangers of _underestimation_. "

The man put the cup down on the table.

"You want to know why I'm here?"

"Yes, I do."

He gestured with his head towards the door, "'I give you that which I value above all in this world', he quietly quoted her words from minutes before, "that was an especially nice touch."

Flemeth sipped her tea quietly, "I thought so."

"Has she been made aware of your…unique predilections?"

"Ha!" Flemeth crowed, "Are you certain you are not Orlesian, so adept at decorating your words in flowers and ribbons."

"I shall speak more plainly then: is your daughter Morrigan aware that she may be used as a vessel in the near future?"

"Now then, that will depend entirely on whether or not you lived up to your end of the bargain."

"Of course I did. I learned long ago that it is unwise the fail one's obligations to you. Tell me, do the Dalish still tell such fierce stories of your wrath, _Asha'bellanar?"_

"I especially enjoy the part about leaving the dismembered remains of those who displease me dangling from the trees," she shook her head wryly, "As if I do not have better things to do."

"Not to mention that you would not pollute the trees so."

Flemeth raised her cup in acknowledgement and took a measured sip, golden eyes boring into the man's face, "Speak plainly."

"The tome you requested has found its way into the Grand Enchanters office, as you specified. It could hardly be more conspicuous. I imagine the man would be most vexed by its presence."

"Bah! The old man will have more than that to vex him if the rumors of abominations are to be believed."

"And what manner of rumors are those?"

"They are the sort that one does not share with charming, devious former students," she smiled broadly, "As if you should be anything else."

"I am what you taught me to be."

"Of course you are. What a mage you would have made."

"Would I have been an asset to you, or a liability?"

"As if you could only be one or the other."

"Too true, but to return to the point—"

"Yes, do please humor an old woman."

The man with the covered eyes stared in her direction for a few moments before proceeding, "No doubt once it is discovered the forgery will send young Morrigan into a frenzy of self-righteous indignation at the thought of being consumed or possessed or whatever her imagination concocts, against her will."

"Silly girl, I thought I had taught her better than to make such rash assumptions."

"You did, but the manuscript is especially convincing."

"Of course it is, you wrote it."

"At your behest," the man's lips curled up in amusement, "You truly have her convinced that you simply 'lost' a priceless tome of lore somewhere to be absconded with by some fool Templar as if it were a random trinket?"

"Oh yes, my performance was quite convincing. I must have ranted and raved about that silly grimoire a half dozen times."

"You did not overplay your hand?"

"If I did, it was by necessity, to get through that hard head of hers."

"And to make certain that it never occurs to her that anything valuable enough to have you in such a state over its loss would have sooner been destroyed than fall into another's hands."

"Just so."

"Then I'm fairly certain your daughter's reaction is likely to be volatile."

"I should certainly hope so," Flemeth scoffed. "No doubt she'll inspire one of her companions to come forth and slay me so that she may be protected."

"One of the two Grey Wardens I take it? The man; he has a potency to him."

"Maric's boy? No, his fate lies elsewhere."

"That's right; you were known to the good king, were you not?"

"In my own fashion, yes. I tried to warn him about treachery. It was a warning he failed to heed.

"And foresight becomes hindsight. Yes, I've been informed of Calian's overtures towards Celene. Loghain's response was predictable, if nothing else."

"Do you believe the Teyrn is aware of all aspects of the relationship between his son-in-law -well, _former_ son-in-law- and the Empress of Orlais?"

"If he had been, he would have slain the fool himself rather than feeding him to the darkspawn."

"You did not hold the former king in high esteem?"

"I do not believe in fighting battles that one cannot win," He gestured with his cup, "Another lesson I learned at your side."

"Indeed."

"Ostagar was a foolish waste at a time where they can hardly be afforded."

"Ostagar was a means to an end, a crucible, necessary to not only propel events forwards in the direction they must, but ensure that those who are crucial to its success were tempered as needed to endure the way ahead." Flemeth explained as she refilled their cups.

"You're speaking of the Cousland girl, I take it?"

"Yes, she has already been through one fire already."

"So I heard. Rendon Howe," the man's tone suggested unparalleled disgust.

"If you spit on my floor, young man, I will make you clean this entire hut with your tongue."

The man swallowed and spoke, "My apologies. The man revolts me."

"Yes, I remember. You never did have much fondness for the Howes."

"Certainly not the current generation. Wasn't there a Grey Warden amongst their ranks at one point?"

"Yes, and if I'm not terribly mistaken, another shall rise," she smiled thinly, "Apparently nobility skips generations."

"I'm still surprised, and more than a little appalled that Rendon thought he could get away with it. As if he could attain that much favor that quickly and no one would have noticed."

"I take it he is dancing to Loghain's tune?"

"The Couslands' greater standing and vocal support of Cailan made them a target in Loghain's schemes, as did anyone who does not share his hatred of Orlais."

"The motivations of men can be bewildering."

The man snorted indelicately, "As if it's difficult to understand why Loghain would loathe the Orlesians, given what they did to his wife."

"I remember once seeing a portrait of them together when they were young, like lions with black manes," Flemeth commented thoughtfully.

"I imagine Anora's golden tresses and fair features made her most distinguishable. The rumors as to how she acquired them are curious indeed."

"Only curious for those who do not have eyes to see. One cannot spin gold from coal."

"True," the man sipped his tea. "Still, never underestimate the power of denial."

"Or regret, for that matter," Flemeth replied quietly.

"I defer to your expertise on that matter," the man sipped his tea thoughtfully, "So, assuming Morrigan dances to your tune and sends the Wardens back here to do away with you-?"

"My Morrigan can be unpredictable, but only in the most predictable of ways; one way or another, I will be dead."

"Or at least appear so, to what end though?"

"I've thrown enough stones into the river; I need time to sit back away from prying eyes to watch where the ripples go."

"So, what will your next move be?"

"That remains to be seen, though perhaps you would be willing to lend your vision to an old friend?"

The man put the glass down, "Oh, anything for an old friend," he gently unwove the cloth from his eyes and placed it neatly folded on the table.

He possessed no eyelids and inserted into the sockets of his eyes were shards of multicolored glass, a latticework of scar tissue emanated from each wound and it surged and flickered with traces of energy. He reached into the folds of his coat and removed a small wrapped bundle.

"I see you're still a sentimentalist," Flemeth indicated towards the item in his hands.

"It came at a great price, I always tend to keep such things close to my heart," He slowly unwrapped the bundle to reveal a set of black cards which he slowly fanned out in front of himself in a single, practiced motion.

"What do you see?" Flemeth whispered.

He reached out and turned over one card.

"It's a crossing; filled with bears and spiders and wolves feasting on a pasture of red hair built on the graves of dead kings."

"I know the village, please continue."

He turned over several other cards, "Lambs to the slaughter for the most part, but there are three cages, they hold something interesting," he ran his hands over the cards, "A ram in a cage, a red-breasted nightingale captured in a rose bush, and," he turned over a final card, "hawks."

"I see," Flemeth purred leaning forward to scrutinize, "Tell me about these hawks."

"There are four: two shall fall into dust, a second into darkness…."

"And the last?"

The man frowned for a moment longer.

"Glory," His fractured eyes looked up from the cards, "And they will need your assistance."

"When?"

"Shortly. My sentries have reported that the darkspawn have almost finished hauling off the corpses of the slain in Ostagar."

"Pray that they are dead, one does not wish to be taken alive by the darkspawn," The elder of the two suppressed a shudder.

"Any of my forces that are sent into their territory carry just two vials of Quiet Death: one for any survivors they find and one for themselves should it become necessary."

"Prudent," Flemeth nodded approvingly, "How long until the horde consumes Lothering?"

"If they are not delayed, a matter of hours."

"And I assume your forces are nearby?"

The man nodded, "Outside Ostagar with Outrunners in the Wilds and the Hinterlands."

"Then have your forces delay them and I shall see to the safety of our nest of hawks."

"And the one other item?"

Wordlessly, Flemeth walked to the other side of the hut to a small chest. Whispering a few words, the lid glowed for a moment and then opened. Reaching in, she removed a large object that glinted red and caused the air around it to hum.

"You're…certain about this?" Flemeth asked cautiously as she eyed the object with grave apprehension.

"Absolutely. The effects of this material have been most promising."

"By' promising', I assume you mean panic and madness?"

"Which is precisely what I require," the man took the object from her and examined it, the red light bright enough to shine through his samite bindings and reflect against the glass shards in his eyes. "Where there is magic, there is life. And where there is life…" he ran his fingers over the edges of the idol, "…there is the corruption of the Blight."

"So you plan on going through with this insanity?"

"A change is coming, and I shall be its herald."

"And if that change has to come on the broken lives of an entire world?"

"Sacrifices must be made," The man gestured towards his eyes.

"Perhaps you have sacrificed too much, my friend."

The man only smiled and turned his attention back to the artifact, "It's an excellent fabrication of ancient dwarven relic. I'll see to it that it finds a home in the Deep Roads, and when the time is right it'll be 'discovered' and no doubt brought back to the eager masses."

"And then…?"

The man simply held up his hands, "Change will happen."

"On your head be the consequences, old friend."

"How like a cloistered sister you sound; parroting the words of their mewling Chant of Light."

The old woman laughed, "Very well then, go and do what you please, as you always have," she gave him a steady look, "You know, I could simply kill you and spare the world your antics."

The man tied the wraps back around his eyes, "You could, but you won't."

"Will I not?"

"Of course not; you want to see what happens next."

Flemeth smiled like a hungry predator.

"I absolutely do," she reached into her robes and removed a tattered book.

"Here," she handed it to him, "A gift from an old friend."

The man, having finished rewrapping his eyes and putting the cards away, examined it.

"'An accounting of the signing the Nevarran Accord'," he ran his hands over the book and gave a slight but satisfied smile, "Circa 1:20 Divine. Very impressive."

"It was written by a knight errant whose name escapes me," Flemeth offered a grin that suggested she was the cat that had just eaten the last canary in Thedas, "but who went one to be a member of the original Inquisition and later a founder of the Templar order. I understand that they still teach according to his words even still."

"The Templars have certainly proven resistant to change."

Flemeth snorted indelicately, "An understatement and a behavior that will cost them dearly in the future," she gestured at the book, "It is encoded, I'm afraid, based on a language that died before the Second Blight. I hear that Andraste's followers used a similar encryption later in life against Tevinter," she cocked an eyebrow challengingly, "That won't be a problem for you, will it?"

"Not in the slightest," The man placed his hand over the book and held still. His brow furrowed in concentration for a moment.

"Interesting, the Templar order has indeed changed little. A fundamental understanding of their most basic schools of thought is certainly…useful," His brow smoothed and he put the book down on the table, "I'll decode the minutiae later."

"You're welcome. Now, I must see to it that both the remaining Wardens are proceeding along the necessary path and then I will turn my attention to the village," The old woman leveled a grave expression upon her companion, "If we lose The Wardens, the rest of Thedas might well follow."

The man exhaled a final cloud of smoke, "Then we shall see to it that we _don't_ lose them."

Flemeth nodded, "Very well. Now, time is moving and we are standing still. Awaken, my friend."

The man opened his eyes.

"Captain Sul?" A level voice called out from the darkness, "How was your sleep?"

The man rose and proceeded to tie the Samite bindings over his eyes before turning to regard the Qunari woman sitting next to his bed. She was tall, as were most Qunari, and possessed a full-figure that was mostly concealed in the robes that she wore. Her horns curled back on themselves and were tipped with Nevarrite, giving them a purple sheen. In her hands she held a tonic, a large book and a supply of quill pens and ink.

"Productive, Atiya," he drank the tonic and grimaced at the taste. The scribe opened the book and readied herself for orders, "What is your command, Captain Sul?" she asked in the perfectly even tone those like her were known for.

"'Drachaen', please, I'm certain we've known each other long enough."

"As you say, Drachaen."

"Summon the council. We have work to do."

Chapter 1

The cat lazily entwined itself around the legs of the man sitting in the chair. Captain Sul gave a small smile and reached down to pet the animal. It purred ecstatically and rubbed against his hand. He straightened, adjusted his black uniform, "Report."

The assembled lieutenants exchanged looks before one, a Dalish elf by his markings, cleared his throat and stepped forward.

"Our Outrunners report that the last of the darkspawn are beginning to migrate from the field of Ostagar," Lieutenant Pellinore began, "Per your instructions, any survivors of the battle were found and collected. Their wounds are being treated and they will be fully debriefed upon their recovery."

"Continue to coordinate with the White Vanguard, ensure that these individuals are recovered enough to endure interrogation. I want their information and their support, preferably in that order. Remind those involved that they are no good to us dead."

"Yes, sir."

"Are the darkspawn continuing to take prisoners underground?"

"Yes, sir," the elf repressed a shudder, "We are getting reports that they are disappearing somewhere in the Hinterlands, near Valammar. We do not why there specifically yet-"

A high-pitched giggle broke the conversation, it quickly dissolved into nonsensical tittering.

"A vein, a vein of red and gray, built by the dead, kept by the dead and now the way home."

Several pairs of eyes, almost unwillingly, turned to regard the speaker: a diminutive humanoid creature with pale blue skin possessing of an androgynous beauty and an ageless veneer. Its eyes were completely blue save for pupils so contracted they almost disappeared.

Captain Sul turned more slowly to observe the gibbering creature and gestured, "Please, continue."

"The Taint, the Taint, The Taint, The Taint!" it stretched out its' body and arched its' spine until she was bent nearly in double, "We can taste it, smell it, we can hear its' crimson song! Here! There! Everywhere!" it quickly degenerated into babbling in a variety of languages that none, save Sul, understood.

"Thank you, Chirak," Sul nodded once and turned his bandaged eyes back to regard his lieutenant, "It would appear that there is an entrance to the Deep Roads nearby. Assign Sentinels to observe and began plans for a more permanent method of monitoring the location."

"Yes sir. And what about the darkspawn taking captives?"

A moment of consideration as Sul leaned back in his high-backed chair, tapping his finger lightly against his lip.

"Eighth day, we hated as she is violated. Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin," Chirak whispered. It wrapped its' arms around itself and began to rock back and forth. It looked up at Sul with those blank, blue eyes, "We can hear her singing, down down down down."

"I see," Sul said under his breath, "Yes, that would make sense."

"Sir?" Pellinore asked cautiously.

"Deploy a squad of Black Shepherds, make sure they are accompanied by at least two of the Grey Wardens. That should keep them from encountering the main body of the horde. Their targets are anyone that has been captured alive by the darkspawn and not yet transplanted underground."

"Should we attempt rescue?"

"Not unless it's approved by one of the Wardens, they should be able to determine whether or not a captive has already been tainted at range. I predict, however, that everyone captured by the spawn have already been corrupted."

"May I ask why, sir?"

"What reason would they have not to begin hastening their captive's corruption?" Sul stated simply. "This operation shall be solely focused on depriving the enemy of resources. Oh, and make certain that the Shepherds carry with them silverite arms and armor, augmented with the appropriate runes in case they should come into conflict with the Darkspawn…as well as vials of Quiet Death should that conflict go poorly."

"Yes sir, though I recommend that we have our forces step up production in Emprise de Lion and The Approach, if we are going to continue to engage the darkspawn."

"Recommendation noted, Lieutenant, and already acted upon: the order was sent to Orlais before we arrived at Ostagar as well as orders to harvest more Arcanist and Lunatic's Deathroot to supplement our stores of Quiet Death and other concoctions.

The elven lieutenant nodded, "_Ma nuvenin, ma Hahren_," he placed his fist over his breast and bowed his head.

"_Ma serannas_, Lieutenant Pellinore," Sul replied, nodding slightly and the elf stepped back to stand amongst his fellow officers once more.

"Lothering?"

A female dwarf, her gray hair cut short and a tattoo marking her as casteless branded on her face stepped forward,

"Birds just got back, the place is done for. The Horde will be there by dawn at the latest."

"Can they be delayed?"

The dwarf scratched her head and spat, "Get a couple of rock-crushers out there, sap the place all to blazes, yeah, by a few hours at least."

"See to it."

The dwarf woman bowed and exited the large tent.

"What news from within the village itself?"

A non-descript human woman stepped forward. She had dark hair and was dressed like a peasant.

"You were right, sir," She reported in a crisp, even voice, with a thick Tevinter accent, "There was a Qunari imprisoned in town, he hadn't been there long. There was also reports of a young red-haired woman in the Inn. Locals says she's been making claims that she see received a vision from the Maker."

A faint smile crossed the Captain's lips, "Of course she has. And the third objective?"

"A family, sir: an older woman, and three siblings, an elder and a pair of twins."

"Continue."

"My information tells me that the family patron, now-deceased, was at, at one point, a respected mage. We have reason to believe that the female twin is also a mage. Her brother was at the battle served under a 'Captain Varrell' and has only recently returned to assist his family in escaping. The eldest sibling seems unremarkable except that apparently she is good with knives, sir."

"An assassin?"

"I don't believe so, sir, not with any formal training at any rate."

"I see. And the remaining Grey Wardens from Ostagar?"

"The man and the woman arrived in Lothering earlier, accompanied by a dark-haired woman we believe to be a Chaisnd Witch along with a mabari hound. What they are doing in town is unknown, though I could return if you wish sir and find out."

"No, that won't be necessary, the Horde is advancing and I have no interest in losing one of my better infiltrators. I take it your cover remained intact?"

The woman smiled broadly, "Y-y-y-yes sir," she said in a mock stutter with a thick Fereldan accent, "I j-j-j-just asked milord Warden's if they could h-h-h-help with maybe getting some traps?"

Captain Sul nodded his approval, "Well done, report back to your unit," The woman hesitated and Sul arched one eyebrow, "Something further?"

"There is," she began hesitantly, "a child."

"Explain."

"His mother was slain by wolves; Goodwife Sarha, she was a friend."

"And you wish to honor your friend's memory by adopting her orphan?"

"Yes, sir."

"I cannot guarantee the boy's safety."

"Yes sir, but respectfully, who amongst us can guarantee safety of anyone?"

Sul pursed his lips then nodded, "Very well, I'm sure one of our knights is in need of a page. His well-being then is your responsibility. I assume you understand the gravitas of that?"

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir." The woman handed him a bound scroll, snapped a crisp salute and departed.

Captain Sul turned his attention to the remainder of his lieutenants: "Break camp and prepare to depart, I should like the majority of our forces to be gone before the darkspawn arrive."

"Yes, sir," the assembled men and women saluted and departed.

"Sir? If I may?"

Captain Sul nodded and the Dalish lieutenant stepped forward.

"Respectfully, Captain, shouldn't we keep a closer watch on the Wardens in Lothering? Given their importance."

"Your concern is noted, Lieutenant. Calm your fears, though, I already know where they're going after Lothering."

"Sir?"

Sul stood up and made his way to a large table adorned with a map, "See for yourself," he gestured, "Lothering is here. Here and here," he pointed, "are the wilds, infested with darkspawn. And here, towards the North, is the Horde itself. Therefore there is only one logical destination," he tapped a place on the map, "Here: The Imperial Highway."

When the Captain explained it like that, it seemed absurdly obvious. Pellinore colored slightly under his markings.

"Although…," Sul frowned as he at the map.

"Sir?"

"The report from Lothering, what is the name of the family that was being investigated?"

The lieutenant cracked open the green and red seal of the phoenix on the parchment and unrolled it, scanning it quickly, "Ah—yes, sir. The name is….Hawke."

"Of course it is," Sul said under his breath, "Bring me parchment and ink."

Pellinore hurried to fetch the supplies. Captain Sul took pen in hand.

_The Hawkes fly south of Lothering. _

He affixed it with his seal and handed it to Pellinore.

"Deliver that to the ravens."

"Yes, sir. What is the destination?"

"The Korcari Wilds."

The young lieutenant frowned, "Just 'The Korcari Wilds' sir? No name?"

Sul smiled to himself, "Don't worry, it will get to who it is intended for."

Pellinore saluted and turned to leave.

"Captain!" an out-of-breath runner panted, "Our sentries in the Wilds are under attack!"

"_Fenedhis Iasa!_" Pellinore spat, "Send up the flare and have our forces retreat immediately, prepare to—"

"Belay that order," Sul held up his hand, "And send for Ravenna and Pentaghast."

"Captain-"

"Let's see what we have," Sul slipped a ring on his finger and waved it over the map. A low hum filled the air as he removed the samite bindings from his eyes, his glass shard eyes gleamed eerily, flickering lights danced within them as he stared at the map.

"Interesting," he peered at the map, which was humming incessantly in a low tone that made Pellinore's back teeth vibrate, he turned to address the elf. "Who is in command of that unit?"

"Sergeant Rutherford, sir. Of Honnleath."

A faint smile crossed Sul's lips, "Very well," he nodded satisfied and replaced the samite bindings around his eyes as a pair of people approached at brisk pace. The woman was tall, copper-skinned, with streaks of grey through her dark air. She possessed a dignified air, which contrasted with the brightly colored tattoos all over her body, gold amulets draped over her throat and on every finger and she was preceded by the scent of tea.

The man, by contrast had was squat, with short hair, dark robes with a crowned skull emblazoned upon it, and a severe expression. He smelled strongly of cinnamon and pitch.

The dark skinned woman bowed, "_Saludo, Mi capitan_."

Sul tilted his head, "Lady Ravenna."

"Make it quick…" the other man barked.

Sul arched an eyebrow at the other man,

"…sir," he finished sullenly.

"Cas."

The other man stiffened, "Casper Pentaghast the third," he corrected haughtily.

"Sir…," Pellinore leaned in and whispered to the Captain just loud enough for everyone else to hear, "…if you prefer, I can summon one of the Sanguinaries to assist instead?"

Sul repressed a smile as Casper's expression slid into outrage and he opened his mouth to protest. The Captain held up a hand, "Peace, Casper, now is not the time. Your services are required."

"Well, obviously!"

Ravenna rolled her eyes at the other man and shook her head, "How may I be of service, _Capitan_?"

Sul lightly touched the ring upon his finger and whispered something, closing his eyes.

_Panic. Short of breath. Sweating through my armor. Riders. Heavy Armor. Barding upon pale horses with dark manes._

Sul reopened his eyes and smiled tightly, "Templars."

Mages and Dalish exchanged alarmed looks as Sul picked up quill and parchment. He wrote quickly and handed it to Ravenna.

"Deliver this to Sergeant Rutherford. You'll find her being pursued by Templars near Ostagar, in the Korcari Wilds."

The woman bowed her head, "As you say, _Capitan_," she turned to face the short man standing next to her, "Well?"

Casper glared at her, "Fine, you old witch!" he snarled, relenting. He brought his hands together and spun them together, a swirling green orb of light formed producing a high-pitched whine. The ball of light became a spinning blur. With a flourish, he released the orb of light where it cascaded over the woman.

She flinched as the glow washed over her in waves, "_Mierda, _I hate this part. Like needles and pins!"

The glow faded and Casper exhaled hard, "Right. I'm leaving, I need a drink," he stormed off.

"Casper."

The man stopped at the Captain's tone; a bead of cold sweat running down the back of his neck.

"Remember who you are. Remember where you are. And remember who _I_ am."

Slowly, Casper turned and met the other man's veiled gaze, there was a beat and then the man bowed deeply at the waist, "Forgive me, my captain, I forget myself."

The Captain held the other man's gaze through the bindings a long moment then he nodded, "Dismissed." Casper saluted and hurried away. The Captain turned his attention to Ravenna, "Well?"

Ravenna moved her hands, they blurred, leaving a trial of afterimages in the air. Her entire body vibrated as she blurred to face Sul opening her mouth to speak,

"Verywell,_micapitan,_iamreadytoleavebyyourcommand!"

Sul took a moment to process the accelerated speech and wordlessly handed over the scroll to her, her hand blurred out and snatched it from him, nearly tearing it. She spun and dashed forward, leaping into the air, there was a burst of black smoke and a large raven flew away from in a black blur.

"Will the orders reach them in time?" Pellinore asked the Captain.

"I would not have dispatched them if I believed otherwise," Sul assured his lieutenant. The pair made their way back to the command tent. Pellinore seemed to be struggling with something, "Speak freely, lieutenant," the Captain said softly.

"Sir, you know I would never presume to question your orders—"

"Peace, Lieutenant, I have no interest in unthinking slaves; Demons, the walking dead, and golems would suffice if I did," Sul turned to face the younger man, "What I want, what I _need _are quick, creative minds who can think, reason, and most of all, _believe," _the pair resumed walking, "We are at war, lieutenant, we cannot afford the luxury of having minds so limited that they cannot expand or adapt to change. Blind obedience and mindless subservience are what the Orlesian Chantry, the Templars, and the Circle of Magi prefer. Those under my command are held to a higher standard."

The pair entered the tent and Sul turned on the other man, "Never be afraid to ask questions, it is the only way to gain understanding," he turned to face outside, "Perhaps if the Orlesian Chantry had not forgotten that, its destruction would not be necessary."

"Yes, sir," Pellinore nodded, "What commands did you issue to the Outriders?"

Sul gestured at the map, "I instructed them to split up and dismount and then proceed southwest on foot as quickly as possible, while keeping in sight of the Templars."

Pellinore frowned at the map, "Sir, southwest leads directly into the bogs. There's nothing but marshland. Won't they be run down?"

Sul smiled faintly, "We shall see," he moved to the far side of the tent and took down a book, "Tell me, Lieutenant, what do you know of history?"

"Ah, little, sir," Pellinore said, looking surprised at the sudden shift of topic, "I've never really been very interested or had the time."

"Consider generating both time and interest," Sul lightly caressed the cover of the book and gently opened it. He ran his fingers down the page for a moment and presented it to Pellinore.

"'History of the Inquisition' circa one-forty Divine," he handed the book to him, "Have you heard of the Inquisition of old, Lieutenant?"

"No sir, I can't say I have," Pellinore replied, too confused to say anything else.

Sul's expression became scornful, "Unsurprising, as the majority of its history has been suppressed by the Orlesian Chantry. Too many 'inconvenient truths' for their liking."

"Yes sir," Pellinore answered, frowning at the repeated use of the phrase '_Orlesian'_ Chantry.

Sul's expression lightened, "Before their submission to the Orlesian Chantry, The Inquisition was a force for good. Motivated men and women of all races and creeds who saw the need for change in the world and set about effecting that change," the Captain scoffed, "I find it a supreme irony that those that were heralded as heroes in their age had their legacy erased by the very institution that they fought to protect."

"This Inquisition became part of the Chan—Ah, the Orlesian Chantry, sir?"

"Yes and no," Sul conceded, "The majority of the Inquisition became part of the Orlesian Chantry in 1:20 Divine at the signing of the Nevarran Accord," he paused and waited.

Pellinore started and shook his head, "I'm sorry, sir, I'm not familiar with that either."

"You should be, Lieutenant, perhaps I will loan you a few tomes from my library."

"Ah, thank you sir, but I'm afraid that I'm not very good at reading."

"Are you not? Well, that is something we shall have to remedy. But I digress: with the signing of the Accord, the Inquisition became the military arm of the Orlesian Chantry. The Circles of Magi and the Order of the Seekers of Truth followed soon after."

"The…'Seekers of Truth'', sir?"

"A poorly-kept secret amongst the Orlesian Chantry; a sect of Templars considered to be the pinnacle of their order; all-knowing, all-seeing, and incorruptible," Sul shook his head, "Much like the Templars, it failed both in principal and in execution,"

"Sir—"

"But what does this have to do with the current situation?"

"Yes, sir."

"Consider: it is the unfortunate nature of most collectives, especially religious or military organizations, to stagnate over the years: new ideas are ignored or suppressed in favor of the safety of the tried and true traditions. They cannot adapt to a changing world and so they work to inhibit that change by whatever means possible."

"Why, sir?"

"_Fear_," Sul answered coldly, "Fear of losing their power, their place, their privilege. They fear the unknown," his tone became colder still, "And what they fear, they hate and seek to destroy. And so they fight tooth and claw against any form of change or progress, regardless of the cost to the rest of the world. They are weak and they are cowardly."

Pellinore swallowed and nodded, the intensity of the Captain's words and tone struck to the bone, "And in regards to the current situation?"

Sul shook his head and Pellinore got the distinct impression that the Captain would have been rolling his eyes, if he still possessed them, "Strategy, lieutenant and an unwillingness to deviate from that which has already been established. In this instance, the strategy of the Templars to travel in full plate mail, complete with Orlesian Coursers into battle."

"Orlesian Coursers. Sir?"

"Horses, lieutenant, from Orlais. They are considered the preferred breed of their Chevaliers. Former and failed Chevaliers make up a significant portion of the Templar Order's command structure. They bring with them their history, their lineage."

"And their horses!" Pellinore said as something clicked.

"Just so."

The Lieutenant frowned, "But sir, I don't understand, why are their horses important?"

Sul shook his head and said nothing.

An hour later, a cheer rose up from the camp and Pellinore nearly jumped.

"You asked why their choice in horses mattered, Lieutenant?"

Pellinore scanned the crowd and his jaw fell open.

"_Fenedhis lasa_!" he swore.

"Because they are heavy," Sul finished.

Being led by the jubilant Outriders arrived a procession of chained Templars, coated in mud and detritus from head to toe. The Templars raged and spat and hurled insults at their captors as they were dragged towards the command tent, many of them coughing violently. At least one vomited up a great deal of dirty water and mud.

Barding, Plate mail, Horses…and it slowly dawned on Pellinore. He spun on his commander, "You had our forces lead them into the swamp…," he turned to face the bound Templars again, "…and they sank."

"Adapt or die, Lieutenant," the Captain said quietly, "There can be no alternative. Now, shall we welcome our guests?"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

An hour later, the Templars were led to the command tent. Their wounds had been bound and their bodies cleaned. They had been granted permission to keep both their armor and blades. The only concession they had been forced to make for their captors was that each of their swords had been peace bound with thin green ribbons.

The tabby cat purred ecstatically underneath Sul's fingers as he scratched under his chin and behind his ears. Sul reached over to a small end table next to his desk, removed a piece of thinly sliced dried ham and dangled it before the cat. The cat sniffed tentatively once before lunging out with a paw, snatching it out of the man's fingers and devouring it whole. Sul's lips curled up in a slight smile.

"Good boy," The cat turned and looked indignant at the man's patronizing tone. Then it meticulously cleaned itself, running one large paw over its scarred face. The man gently took the cat's face in his hand and rubbed his thumb over the missing eye and scars across its face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I failed you too."

The cat put both his paws on the man's hand, pushed itself forward and began to lick the Sul's face purring.

"Drachaen," Atiya began, leaning her tall frame down to whisper in the man's ear, "Are you certain it is wise to allow the prisoners to keep their weapons?"

With a quiet sigh, Sul gently lifted the cat from his lap and placed it upon the ground. It huffed once and then curled around his feet, resting his large head on paws peering at the prisoners disdainfully.

"One does not strip a Templar of his arms and armor, unless you seek to them a great dishonor," Sul regarded the group thoughtfully, "Now is not the time for shaming. Now is the time for negotiation."

Atiya bowed her massive head, tucking a stray lock of auburn hair behind her curved horns and straightening.

"Different faces, different races, different places," Chirak tittered from its position, crouched like a feral beast at the Captain's feet, "But all the same."

"Let us hope not," Sul replied softly before standing, "I am Captain Drachaen Sul, I bid you welcome to the Phoenix Legion."

"This is an outrage!" one of the Templars, a tan man with more than his share of nose, roared, "I demand—!"

"Oy!" A boot the size of on ox's heart slammed into his back and sent him sprawling, "Shut your bloody gob and speak right to the Cap'n before I gouge out your eyes and skull fuck you to death!" A thick arm wrapped around the man's throat, a second locked behind it and instantly the Templar's vision began to dim, "Cap'n sir!" the unseen assailant barked, "Permission to skull fuck the prisoners to death sir!"

"All in good time," Sul replied calmly, "Release him."

"Yes, sir!"

The Templar was dropped in a heap, gasping for air. He rolled over onto his back and gaped, "An elf?!"

Not a lithe creature of the woods, the elf was easily six feet tall and as broad as a horse, with muscular arms and ham-sized hands. He was covered in scars, the most prominent being a large, puckered scar that might have once come from a beast that bisected his face and colored one eye a pale blue whilst the other was a dead black. His hair was gray and resembled the bristles of a wild boar. He leered at the fallen knight and spat a noxious substance that seemed to hiss and pop when it hit the ground. "Piss on you," he spat.

"Gentlemen…and lady," Sul amended with a tilt of his head, acknowledging the young woman that was among their ranks, "May I introduce Sergeant Reaper Maul."

"Yeah," Maul grinned, "Name used to be 'Spine- breaker, eye-gouger, heart ripper, but it wouldn't all fit on the side of me tent."

The Templar that had been assaulted was being helped to his feet, still coughing in an attempt to regain the ability to draw breath.

"Do you drink the blood of your enemies? Are you descended from dragons?"

A younger Templar had spoken; Sul eyed him speculatively. A Marcher by his tone and complexion, he couldn't have been off the farm longer than a handful of years.

"Naw!" Maul grinned, "Yer thinkin' 'Reavers'. Don't need none of that here."

"Maul's aggressive tendencies and combat abilities are more than sufficient without being further augmented by blood consumption," Sul explained.

Maul jerked his head towards the Captain, "What the Cap'n said!"

"Sergeant."

"Sir!"

"Thank you for your assistance. I do not believe that I shall require it for the present."

"Are you certain Cap'n?" he gestured at the Templar he'd nearly choked to death, "That one's a right shifty bastard. I can rip off his arm and beat him to death with it, teach him some manners," he grinned manically, revealing a mouth full of yellowed sharpened teeth.

"If you kill him, what use is teaching him manners?"

Maul frowned, "Fair 'nough," he saluted vigorously, "By your leave then, cap'n!"

Sul nodded and the elf turned on his heel and marched away.

"Forgive Sergeant Maul," Sul explained, "His tenure in the Provings left little time for matters of diplomacy."

"He was in the Provings?" the Marcher Templar gaped, "But he's an elf!"

Sul turned his bandaged gaze back to the young man, "What is your name, Ser knight?"

"Kieran, sir. Of House Ehingen."

"Bannermen to the Vaels themselves," he smiled slightly, "You are a long way from home, Ser Knight."

"Yes, sir!"

"Enough of this!" The Templar that had been assaulted had regained his breath and his composure, "By the rules of war-!"

"Do not presume to lecture me on the rules of war, Templar," Sul's eyes flashed, "Whilst we are discussing it however, which 'rules' would you prefer: those of Ferelden set forth by King Calenhad during Exalted age, or would you prefer the Orlesian rules of war as proclaimed by Emperor Valmont in during the Age of Storm?"

The Templar shut his mouth with an audible sound, "The Rules of Orlais."

Sul scoffed, "How fitting. Given that after the ratifications by Emperor Valmont during his war with Ferelden granted exceptional leeway and rights of ransom to officers," he shifted his glace to the other knights, "the enlisted were not so fortunate."

Chirak threw back its head and laughed, "A cowardly lion! A cowardly lion! A cowardly lion!"

"Enough, Chirak!" Sul admonished the creature.

The blue skinned creature turned and hissed at Sul, but remained silent.

"Very well then, custom dictates that commanding officer identify himself so that formal negotiations may begin. Are you he?"

The man stood erect, "I am Knight-Captain—"

"No, you are not," Sul cut him off, his expression predatory.

"How dare-!"

"Your armor is of standard Orlesian design, but the riveting has been done with iron, as is evidenced by the discoloration. Silverite, which does not tarnish is more traditionally used amongst knights of rank," Sul tilted his head in a gesture that spoke of not-so-subtle mockery,

The Knight Lieutenant moved to object, Sul silenced him with an upraised hand, "You bear no masked heraldry upon your shield or pommel and the leather of your scabbard is made of Bronto Hide, not August Ram leather, as would befit nobility,"

Sul leaned in for the kill, "You are what is known colloquially as a 'peasant-knight'. In Ferelden, perhaps you could earn your way to a captainship, but hailing from or near the Dales as your accent and the cut of your cloak indicates, you rank no higher than 'Knight-Lieutenant' at best."

"Sweet Maker!" Ser Kieran exclaimed, earning reproving looks from his comrades.

Sul stood and poured himself a goblet full of water. The silence stretched on, discomforting the Templars as Sul leisurely returned to his high-backed chair and took a long measured sip of water before turning his attention back to the Templars.

"You have violated the third of the five most core tenants of formal negotiation under the Orelesian code: you have misrepresented yourself and your rank and therefore cannot serve as spokesman to your unit," He gestured to the guards flanking the Templars,

"Imprison them. Perhaps they will amuse the darkspawn," he turned his attention back to Atiya.

The Knight-Lieutenant in question looked sick.

"No, wait!" a voice called out and the young woman stepped forward, "I will negotiate in place of the Knight-Lieutenant!"

Sul turned his attention back to the assembled Templars, "Will you?" Sul asked thoughtfully. "Do you claim superior rank?"

"No, sir, I do not."

"Do you claim ties to higher nobility?" he pressed.

"No sir, I do not."

"Can you offer any justification as to why you should be permitted to negotiate instead of your superior officer?"

"Only that I will not sully myself with lies," The young woman looked back at the other Templars, "And that I would lay down my life for my comrades. This I swear, on my life and on my honor for they are one and the same."

A beat and then Sul slowly nodded, "Very well, that will suffice."

She hesitated, "Forgive me, my lord—"

"I am _not_ a lord," The Captain interrupted, "Nor am I descended from nobility. I am a warrior, a soldier of Ferelden, and an officer. 'Sir' or 'Captain' will suffice. Identify yourself, Ser knight."

"If you are lowborn," The Templar lieutenant shouted, "Then you have no right—!"

"I do not require 'the right' to pass judgment upon you Knight-Lieutenant, I possess the _ability_. I am above the mandates of your incestuous nobility and your withered chantry, I answer to a higher law."

"Which is?"

"_**Mine**__." _The air between the two men was colder than the darkness between the stars. "If you speak again, I will kill you. Is that perfectly clear?"

The Templar officer said nothing and slunk back amongst his men. Sul returned his attention to the young woman, "Identify yourself, Ser knight" he repeated calmly.

"Ser Ceyrabeth, my lor—sir. Of Montfort."

"Now that is a proper, civil greeting, even here in the Wilds," Sul nodded his head approvingly, "Assuming you are not claiming aggrieved status, you may state your terms."

"My…terms, sir?" the young woman looked puzzled for a moment.

"What do you want?"

Ceyrabeth quickly regained her footing, "I would like to have my fellow Templars released without suffering any further harm."

"Perhaps you should refrain then from riding several hundred pounds of mount and knight into a bog."

Ceyrabeth's cheeks flared red and she glared sideways at the Knight-Lieutenant.

"Ah," Captain Sul added, "You did not. When the order to charge was given, you did not follow into the trap," his obscured gaze turned to the mud splattered on the hem of her cloak, "It was only _after_ your fellows became mired did you enter the bog yourself."

"Yes sir. It is how you say."

"And promptly became mired as well."

A quiet sigh escaped her lips, "Yes sir."

"Tell me; you've had time now to reflect on your actions. What would you have done differently?"

Ceyrabeth thought for a moment, then shook her head, "I do not know, sir. I could not abandon my fellows to death."

"Indeed, you could not. You were in an untenable situation the moment your commanding officer allowed his wounded pride to dictate his actions. Given what you had to work with, you showed both courage and loyalty."

Ceyrabeth felt more color rush to her cheeks at the older man's praise, "Thank…thank you sir."

Sul nodded, "Now, bring me your sword."

She frowned, "Sir?"

"Your sword. Bring it to me and the sword of your commander as well."

The knight-lieutenant opened his mouth to protest, then quickly remembered Sul's threat on his life and shut it. Glowering at the young woman he handed over his sword, still bound in its scabbard.

Carefully, Ceyrabeth approached the Captain. The Qunari woman, Atiya reached out with a large hand and collected the weapons from the young woman. Ceyrabeth frowned at both her eerily still expression and the strange puckered scars around her lips.

Atiya presented the weapons to the Captain. Carefully he undid the peace binding around the Knight-Lieutenant's sword and slowly removed the blade, eyeing it critically before rising to his feet, sword still in hand. The assembled Templars moved away from him in alarm, but Sul merely gave the weapon a few measuring test swings, tight and precise, and frowned in displeasure.

"Poorly balanced," he commented disapprovingly, "and only a partial tang." He examined the owner of the blade critically, "Too many years guarding acolytes and apprentices. By the quality of this weapon, I can only assume that you have never served on the front line before…," Sul returned his gaze to the blade, "…against opponents who are permitted to fight back."

The Knight-Lieutenant looked as if he would have an apoplexy.

Sul frowned at the blade, running his hands carefully along the edges and then down the fuller, rubbing his thumb back and forth against the groove, "You take very good care of this weapon, Knight-Lieutenant. Very good care indeed."

"We're required to make sure our weapons are cleaned after every battle," Ser Kieran provided helpfully.

"Of course. Dried blood is not conducive to the overall integrity of the weapon, to say nothing of darkspawn blood," Sul pressed the tip of the blade into the dirt and carefully rested his weight upon it."

"Inflexible," he noted with distaste, "No give to the steel makes for a brittle blade," he turned his attention back to the Templars, "Quite the liability against the heavier weapons darkspawn are known to favor."

The other Templars shifted uneasily at the mention of darkspawn.

"This weapon however is in exceptional condition, especially considering how poorly constructed it is. There is not a single nick in the edge not a spot of dried blood within the fuller or encrusted upon the hilt," Sul handed it to Atiya, "Atiya, when was the last time you saw a blade in such a condition?"

"When it was freshly made, Captain. When it had never been used," She answered in her usual level tone.

"When it had never been used," Sul confirmed, taking the weapon back from her and casually tossed the blade at Knight-Lieutenant's feet.

"You were at Ostagar. There is no other possible reason for a unit of Templars in full regalia to be present in the Korcari Wilds. Ostensibly, I imagine your purpose was to 'protect' the mages present on loan from the Circle tower to aid King Cailan's forces and yet I do not see your charges," Sul adjusted his obsidian-colored uniform and retook his seat.

The remainder of the Templars looked very nervous at this line of questioning, none more so than the Knight-Lieutenant.

Sul turned his attention back to the Qunari, "Did our Sentinels observing the battle see any mages at the forefront, when the king and the Grey Wardens were being massacred?"

"No, Captain."

Sul leaned in for the kill, "Did they see any Templars?"

"No, Captain."

"And what conclusion do you draw from this?"

"That the mages and Templars were somewhere else," She turned her eyes upon the assembled knights, "Someplace _away _from the fighting."

"Someplace a great deal away, judging by the condition of their armor and, more tellingly, their weapons."

"It is possible that the mages somehow escaped the Templars and in attempting to recapture them, they could not participate in the battle,"

"Possible, if not for the fact that a group of mages could not outrun a full company of mounted Templars on open ground. Even had they horses of their own, The Templars would have proved to be superior horsemen."

"Perhaps the Templars murdered the mages," The Qunari woman speculated in the same, emotionless tone, her flat gaze measuring each of the knights in turn.

"We would never—"Ser Keiran called out.

Sul held up a hand, "Peace Ser knight, I am perfectly aware that you did not murder your charges," He gently undid the peace bind to Ceyrabeth's sword and removed it from its sheath,

"Better," he commented running his hands along the blade's edge, "This weapon has clearly seen battle," he held the weapon up and lightly rapped it with a fingernail causing the metal to ring, "Paragon's Luster," he mused. He gripped the sword by the hilt and held it out straight, tip pointed at the woman, "The balance suggests the smith is used to working with denser materials and a lower center of gravity. It is dwarven make then?"

"Uh-yes!" Ceyrabeth replied wondering how in the name of Andraste he had deduced that, "It's a family heirloom."

Sul carefully ran his thumb carefully along the fuller, "But I detect no evidence of mage blood on this weapon."

She frowned, "Sir?"

Sul favored her with a slight smile and took another measured sip from his goblet, licking his lips before speaking,

"Before a major battle Mages often consume vast amount of lyrium to ensure the potency of their spells. It leaves a certain residue in the blood, probably traces of lyrium that could not be absorbed more fully into the body," He gently sheathed the weapon and left the peace binding undone.

"That residue would be present on this weapon had you run through a mage whose blood was that heavily saturated with lyrium. It is nearly impossible to clean off entirely," He handed the weapon back to her and turned his attention to the other Templars, "As for the remainder of you, your arms were thoroughly scrutinized before they were peace bound and returned to you. There was no lyrium residue on any of your weapons," Sul's lips twisted up in amusement at the look of extreme discomfort the Templars exhibited at the knowledge that their belongings had been so thoroughly scrutinized, as if they feared Sul's men would uncover some sinister secret hidden in their blades.

He returned his attention to Ceyrabeth, "Therefore, it may be safely assumed that you did not murder your wards," His head lifted back up to regard the others, "Furthermore, during this exchange and based on previous reports, I do not get the sense that there are any amongst you who have the desire or the antipathy to commit multiple acts of betrayal and murder."

His bandaged visage flickered over to Ceyrabeth, "You possess the courage of your convictions which would prohibit that sort of behavior," his head shifted slightly to scrutinize the Knight-Lieutenant, "For the most part."

"Then the only logical conclusion is that the Templars released the mages."

"That is correct," Sul nodded, "And why do you think that is?"

Atiya leveled a dead-eyed gaze at the Knight-Lieutenant, "Because they stood to gain from it in some way."

"Who were the ranking members of the Circle of Magi in attendance at Ostagar?" Sul asked his advisor casually.

"Senior Enchanter Uldred and Senior Enchanter Wynne," Atiya recited from memory, tilting her horned head quizzically, "Why?"

Sul simply shook his head, "Our information from the Tower suggests that Senior Enchanter Wynne is a modest woman and seeks only to maintain the status quo so prized by her fellow Aequitarians. Pity, as I understand she is a woman of unassailable character," Sul's expression hardened, "But Senior Enchanter Uldred was a man of means before his incarceration within the Tower, nobility I believe," Sul's frigid demeanor became more so, "As you well know, Knight-Lieutenant."

With a disdainful toss, Sul hurled a bag upon the ground at the knight's feet. It landed heavily and silver and gold spilled forth upon the ground.

"Within one's boot is a poor place to hide a coin purse," Sul said very softly.

"You bastard!" Kieran bellowed and attempted to attack the other man, only to be held back by the guards present, "You told us the mages escaped using blood magic!"

Sul rose to his feet and began to pace, his head lowered in thought, "Uldred will no doubt return to the tower and engage in some form of suicidal stupidity, that's certainly in keeping with his character," Sul mused before turning to Atiya, "Have our allies amongst the Libertarians been warned to avoid the man?"

"Agent Kelli forward the message received from the kitchen staff."

"Let us hope that her and her fellow 'Loyalists' can keep themselves intact during whatever insanity Uldred and his lackeys have in store. The signs all point to something dramatic…,"

Sul reached into his uniform and removed a pipe and a piece of straw. He carefully set the straw ablaze, using it to light the pipe before crushing the flaming material in his bare fist and lazily dumping the still-smoldering remains to the floor. He took a deep inhalation and exhaled thoughtfully.

"…which concurs with the information we have received from our agents amongst the mages and Templars at the tower," he finished.

"What?!" Ceyrabeth cried.

Captain Sul and Atiya both turned to face her, "You have a question, Ser Knight?"

"You…you have spies in the Templars? And the Mages?"

Sul smiled slightly, "Tell me; what is the name of the person who prepared your meals at the Tower?"

The young woman opened her mouth to answer and found she could not.

"The name of the stablemaster's son? The name of the person who cleans the floors of your chambers or ensures that your weapons and armor are polished?" Sul leaned in, "The person who empties your chamber pots?"

"I…do not know, sir."

"The great powers of this world tend to believe they operate in a vacuum, they do not. Behind every great institution is an army of people who assure that it manages to sustain itself day-to-day. Without these people, the societies of Thedas would collapse and yet their only reward is to remain ignored, unseen," Sul settled back against his chair, "_I_ see them, I know them and they know me as do so many other individuals who have been pushed aside and labeled as 'outcasts' or 'pariahs'. And what they see, _I_ see. What they know, _I_ know. That is the true nature of power: to know your enemy," he titled his head toward the woman, "Remember that."

The Templars began eyeing in each other warily, perhaps wondering if some of the people they considered to be casual acquaintances within the Tower were in fact a spies watching their every move.

Or if one of their own was.

"I see by your demeanors that you understand the implications of this," Sul nodded, "As it should be. But there is a more pressing matter to address," He raised his voice. "Knight-Lieutenant, by the Code of the Templars set down by Ser Haron and Emperor Drakon I judge you guilty of desertion, corruption, and acting in a manner unbecoming of a Templar whilst in command of Templar forces. Your sentence-"

"You!"

A flurry of movement interrupted the Captain's decree and a young man in robes threw himself at the Knight-Lieutenant, "I knew it was you! I knew it was you! I saw you!" He screamed. The guards intercepted his frenzied flight and the young man screamed and sobbed as he clawed at the air trying to reach the other man.

"Hold."

The guards obeyed instantly and the young man collapsed into a heap, sobbing piteously.

"Bring him forth."

The guard carefully lifted the boy up and brought him before the Captain.

"Calm yourself. What is your name?"

"Arryn, sir."

"And you have a grievance against this man?" Sul indicated the Knight-Lieutenant.

The lad wiped his eyes, "I was an apprentice in the Tower of Ferelden before I escaped," he pointed a shaking finger at the Templar, "This man…he…sold me to someone visiting the tower and that man…used me."

"This man," Sul indicated with his hand, "was paid by someone visiting the circle."

"Yes, sir."

"And that person raped you," it wasn't a question.

The young man just nodded, wiping his nose.

"And then?"

"And then, when it was over in the morning, he took me back to the apprentice quarters and told me that if I told anyone, he'd tell everyone I was a blood mage. I was _a child!_" he cried.

Silence had decided like death upon the proceedings.

"I see," Sul said softly.

"This is hearsay!" the knight-lieutenant yelled, "This boy is a liar and an apostate and a blood mage! He hates all Templars!"

"Is that true?" Sul asked Arryn, "Do you hate all Templars?"

The young man looked up at him, no longer weeping but eyes red rimmed with rage, "Yes."

"You see?!" The knight-lieutenant shrieked, his voice cracking.

Ignoring the Templar, Sul addressed the boy, "And given the chance, would you kill Templars?"

"Yes."

"All of them?"

"All of them."

Sul's steepled his fingers underneath his chin in thought then nodded, "Very well. You may kill them."

The Templars cried out in protest as a guard handed the boy his sword. The boy looked at it for a moment, then back at Sul, then finally on the Knight-Lieutenant, his expression locked in hatred. He advanced.

"Not him."

The boy jerked to a stop and looked at Sul, clearly confused, "Sir?"

Sul lazily pointed, "Her."

The boys' eyes turned upon Ceyrabeth. There was no fear in the other woman's expression, she was composed: The expression of a woman facing her death.

"No!" Keiran cried out and attempted to intervene, only to be blocked by the guards.

"I don't understand," Arryn stuttered.

"It's quite simple. You hate all Templars. This young woman _is _a Templar. Ergo, it is your desire to slay her," he gestured, "Do so."

"But, she's…innocent."

"She is a Templar, is that not crime enough?"

Arryn started to shake, "I don't—"

"Very well then, another target," Sul pointed again, "Him. The young man."

Kieran turned very pale.

"No!" Ceyrabeth cried out, "He has done nothing, he's just a boy."

"So was Arryn before he was defiled at the behest of a member of your order, Templar."

"A member! One man's weakness and cruelty is _not_ the Order!"

Sul returned his attention to Arryn. The boy was still clutching the sword and was trembling violently.

"You may take your pick then, Arryn, who amongst the Templars shall suffer first for your suffering? You intend to kill them all, so proceed."

Arryn looked into their faces: Ceyrabeth, her face lined with fear and concern. Kieran, looking very young and very afraid. The other Templars wore similar expressions: fear, horror, dread.

Sympathy.

The sword dropped from Arryn's hands.

"No," he whispered, "They are innocent. They did not do this to me," he pointed a shaking finger at the Knight-Lieutenant, "_He_ did."

"_A_ Templar then, not _the _Templars?" Sul asked softly.

"Yes," The boy whispered hoarsely and turned away from the Captain, burying his face in his hands.

Slowly, Sul rose from his chair and made his way to the young man.

"Hate is a tool for the weak," he stated, "You are above such things."

A heavy hand touched Arryn's shoulder. The boy gasped and looked up in shock.

"I'm so sorry," Ceyrabeth said gently, "But no one else is going to hurt you."

The boy stood stiffly for a moment and then broke. With a wail, he threw himself into the Templar woman's arms.

"I'm so sorry!" he cried, "I'm so so sorry!"

Ceyrabeth held him and stroked his head, "Shh, all will be well child," she looked past the boy's shoulder to meet Sul's bandaged gaze.

"Thank you," she said simply.

Sul nodded and then resumed his place upon the chair.

"He's telling the truth," Atiya said simply.

"I know," Sul replied.

"This…this is all-," the Knight-Lieutenant stammered, "I demand a fair trial!"

"I have never heard an innocent man say that," Sul commented, "Take note, Knight-Lieutenant: Tears are not the hallmark of a liar. Fear is" He leaned forward, "You stink of fear."

The knight-lieutenant shuddered and drew back as Sul continued speaking, "The Qunari have a saying 'The tragedy is not to die, but to be wasted'," He turned his attention to the androgynous chittering creature perched at his feet, "Chirak?"

Chirak's expression turned somber as it began to approach the Knight-Lieutenant.

"Move the other prisoners back!" Atiya called out in a clear voice. She helped the guards herd the other Templars away from the Knight Lieutenant. The Qunari woman caught Kieran's eye, "Do not watch this," she said quietly.

Kieran swallowed and nodded.

"What's happening?" Ceyrabeth asked, still holding the mage. The Knight-Lieutenant was well past the verge of panic. Desperately he attempted to find shelter amongst the ranks of the other Templars and saw only condemnation in their eyes. Sul gestured and a guard helped herd her and Arryn away from the doomed knight-lieutenant.

"The penalty for your crimes is death," Sul stated in a cold tone, "Proceed."

The Knight Lieutenant was panting like a wild beast, "No, no! Mercy, please!"

"That's what I said," Arryn whispered. Ceyrabeth took the boy's head in her hands and averted his gaze, burying his face in her shoulder.

"We are sorry," Chirak said to the Knight-Lieutenant.

And then Chirak began to scream: a horrific wail of pain as its backwards in half. The scream became a high-pitched screech; a hideous, grating, angry sound. A crackling sound filled the air and Chirak's clothing split fell apart. The blue flesh underneath was bubbling madly as _something_ underneath it writhed and thrashed as if trying to break free.

And then its torso puckered and burst revealing a great drooling maw.

"Sweet Maker!" One of the Templars cried out and gripping his sword, drew it with all his might, shattering the peace binding. A blast of white powder erupted from the sheath and struck the man's hands and face. He screamed and fell to the ground clawing at this eyes. The other Templars didn't even notice.

The others were cowering away from the bubbling, shifting mass of meat that had been Chirak. Tendrils of flesh and muscle burst out of the huge fanged mouth and begin to crack and writhe. With a burst of gore a pair of huge, clawed arms burst out of the sides of Chirak's rapidly shifting torso. Vast strips of skin peeled back and fell from the body, the tissue underneath warped and writhing and it stretched becoming taller until it towered over the Knight-Lieutenant.

"Oh, Maker no!" the Knight-Lieutenant screamed. He turned and attempted to flee.

And the mass of bubbling flesh and teeth pounced upon him. A pair of tentacles were vomited forth from the gibbering mouth that was now taking up the entire front of the torso. They wrapped around the Knight-Lieutenant's legs and brought him down, dragging him towards itself.

"No! No! No! No! No!" he screamed and babbled, his fingernails breaking off in the dirt as he clawed for some purchase. The now-vestigial head of Chirak continued to bounce, loosely attached to a thin tendril of flesh. It continued to scream and stare blankly ahead, eyes wide and unseeing, locked in a rictus of agony as if horrified by its' own actions.

"_Noooooooo!"_

The huge drooling maw sank its teeth into the man's back and hoisted him up bodily into the air. The tentacles began to burrow through the armor and deep into the man's body. The Knight-Lieutenant began to make gurgling noises as his body was violated. The two arms that had sprouted from the torso were tipped with huge claws and they punctured the man on each side of his chest and pulled him flush against itself.

With a final scream, the man's armor burst. His flesh began to bubble and writhe. He looked down at himself uncomprehendingly as his body began to melt and flow like wax.

And the gibbering monstrosity opened its central mouth wide and the tentacles pushed the screaming mound of flesh that had once been a Templar into its mouth, the sound of his spine breaking was audible over the screams and the wet sound of tortured flesh.

And then, he was gone. The mouth closed. For a moment, those assembled saw the knight-lieutenant _within _the creature's translucent skin. He was still screaming and clawing to escape as he dissolved.

There was a meaty popping sound and what appeared to be spider legs erupted from the creature's lower portions, covered in slime. The beast bounded away taking the screaming meat within it and the sounds faded into nothingness.

"We shall call a short recess whilst you elect a new representative to speak on your behalf for these negotiations," Sul stated quietly.


	3. Chapter 3

Ceyrabeth was furious. She had spent most of her life more or less angry, but this was a feeling she hadn't had to deal with in a long time- this pulsing, glittering scratch at the back of her eyes that periodically sent little stars floating across her vision. That thrice damned idiot Knight-Lieutenant…but he was dead now, and that was half the problem. That creature…Chirak, or whatever it was called…and the master that bound it. What kind of man was this Captain Sul, that spoke with such intelligence and compassion but kept flesh-eating monsters at his side like a pet Mabari?

She wished to the Maker that she hadn't had to speak up. It was not in her best interests to have the Captain's eye on her. There was so much she stood to lose if he looked too deeply, and spoke too indecorously. But it had happened and now she found herself in the rather incongruous position of being spokeswoman for her fellow Templars.

Between the humiliation of the bog, the uncertainty of imprisonment, and the raw terror the creature Chirak had instilled, they could hardly still be called Templars. Even Keiran's unfailingly upbeat outlook was faltering. He sat on the edge of the courtyard, the boy Arryn sitting beside him with a bleak look on his young face. The poor mage had simply seen too much, re-lived too much and he was just plain _tired. _Stars hit Ceyrabeth's eyes and she pulled in a deep breath, her hand automatically touching the pouch that contained her lyrium dose. No, she told herself, even though the desire to take it made her muscles clench painfully. She only had one left, having given her spare to Ser Mathias after their supply sank to the bottom of the bog. She would be damned before she would go begging to Captain Sul for lyrium, so she had to make it last.

Stars again. She _had _to get herself under control. The past didn't matter. Now, she had to make sure they all had a future. "We have to decide who is going to speak, and what we're going to speak for."

"What's the point?" Ser Mathias was still looking a little green around the edges, but Ceyrabeth figured that was the result when you vomited up half your weight in bog water. "We're all going to die here anyway. That madman is just playing with us."

"We don't know that…"

"Did you get a good look at his face?" Ser Tregan said ominously before making a sign to ward off evil. "Something's not right there. I think he's cursed…"

Ser Corellan rolled his eyes, "You think everything is cursed, Treg. I'm surprised you don't insist your breakfast be purified every morning…"

"Better than being tainted! I've seen what the taint does to a man…"

"We were all at Ostagar, Tregan…you don't have to piss your pants over darkspawn…"

Beth saw Keiran's shoulders hunch at the mention of Ostagar. It had been his first real battle and it was a good thing that none of them had actually needed to fight because it was all he could do to not vomit all over his armor. She was grateful that she had been the one to find him behind the tent, head hunched over his knees and unbidden tears making tracks down his young cheeks. He was steady as a rock against human opponents; the sheer numbers and monstrous nature of the darkspawn hoard had simply been too much of a shock to the young farm boy. Ceyrabeth had just picked him up, gave him her sash to mop up the evidence of tears, and told him to stick close. Arryn too didn't need the thought of darkspawn of all things crowding his already tortured young mind.

"Enough!" Ceyrabeth barked. They all stopped bickering, mostly from the novelty of having Ceyrabeth command them. She was usually quiet, never questioning orders, never drawing attention to herself. Capable in a fight, but never one to boast about it later. "Do you trust your Maker, or don't you? Remember…

'Though all before me is shadow,

yet shall the Maker be my guide.

I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.

For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light

And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.'"

She looked at each of her brothers in turn, conviction making her dark eyes look impossibly large. "This is exactly what Sul wants. He wants us scared and scattered and bickering amongst ourselves. Every shot we take at each other is a shot he doesn't have to take, and it makes us weak. We are _not _weak! We are Templars, and we _will_ start acting like it."

Her speech had the desired effect. Faces lightened as her words took hold, the Canticle of Trials adding steel to their spine as they were reminded of their holy duty. Ceyrabeth caught sight of Captain Sul's qunari shadow watching them from across the way and Ceyrabeth lifted her chin defiantly. By the Maker, when they came to get them, they would find them a united force and singing the Maker's praises.

"Oh Maker, hear my cry. Guide me through the blackest nights," Ceyrabeth felt a little awkward singing the canticle without accompaniment- she was well aware that she would never be asked to join the Orlesian Temple Choir. But she pressed on, making up in assurance what she lacked in melody. "Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked, make me to rest in the warmest places."

Ser Keiran, bless his endearing heart, joined her on verse two and before long every Templar captive had joined in. Ceyrabeth felt a fierce satisfaction when Sul's elven lieutenant finally came to fetch them and they were all singing with a reasonably harmonious fervor. With seven of them, there was absolutely no way that they hadn't been heard in every corner of the Phoenix Legion's compound.

It was a delicious bout of rebellion, Ceyrabeth decided, but as they entered the command tent she realized; she should have taken the lyrium. Maker damn her, but she should have taken it. Ceyrabeth knew that the second she saw Captain Sul's face again and instead of fear or respect she felt a fissure of rage. Not anger; that was too tame a word. She wanted to rip and tear and rend, to see that self-assured demeanor lay in tatters at her feet. She wanted to lay into his precious Phoenix Legion with all her strength and shred it to tatters, like he had done to her Order. They were trapped, demoralized, terrified, many of her brothers dead, and it was all his fault. He reminded Ceyrabeth of _her_…the woman whose name Ceyrabeth never said if she could help it…all cold, quiet confidence and nauseating self-righteousness.

She glared at Lieutenant Pellinore, who was rolling out a piece of parchment on the desk in preparation to record the negotiations. She could take him easily, she decided. He was young, not as watchful as he should be. Ceyrabeth didn't realize that her hand was closing over her sword until Reaper Maul's raucous voice bellowed over the tent…"Oy girlie! You're not planning on doing anything fucking stupid are you?"

Ceyrabeth's head swung to face him, startled out of her less-than-gentle thoughts. She flashed him a smile, one that was indistinguishable from a teasing grin unless you happened to look in her eyes. "Would I tell you if I was?" She asked sweetly. "Especially with the threat of being…what was it? Skull fucked and beaten to death with my own arm? Or…" She turned back to Sul. "Is it cleaner to just feed me to an abomination? I'd hate to inconvenience you, Captain."

She should tone down the sarcasm, if Pellinore's gasp of disapproval and Maul's throaty growl were any indication. Even the cat on Sul's lap raised its head and narrowed its one eye at her tone. But Sul himself didn't seem to mind; he simply held up one hand and the room immediately fell silent again. "May I assume you will be the speaker for your men, Ser Ceyrabeth de Montfort?"

"Yes, sir." She straightened her shoulders and forced herself to look him in the eyes. Well, where his eyes would be anyway. "I claim a grievance, Captain."

"Do you indeed?"

"I do." Ceyrabeth almost faltered at his tone. Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and wicked and do not falter, she thought to herself, and stood a little taller. "It is in regards to our former Knight-Lieutenant. A Templar bows to no authority save the Chantry, and declaring yourself to be a higher law does not make it so. 'As there is but one world," She quoted the Canticle of Transfigurations with calm conviction, "'One life, one death, there is but one god, and He is our Maker. They are sinners, who have given their love to false gods.'"

"So I am a god now?" Sul asked mildly.

There were a nervous laughs amongst the Legion despite the fact that she had just not-so-subtly insulted every single member of the Legion in one fell swoop, and implied their captain was a blasphemous pretender. Ceyrabeth half expected to be tackled to the ground and be bludgeoned to death or have her heart ripped out; she decided to keep talking until it actually happened. "Thus, I maintain that the right to judge him was not yours, but ours. You robbed us of that right, insulted our authority and that of the Maker, and therefore I request recompense for his life."

And now she was practically calling him a thief. She heard Ser Corellan's groan of dismay, Ser Quinlan's whispered "Maker, protect us…" But really, what did Ceyrabeth-or any of them for that matter- have to lose? She had already seen the horrors Captain Sul and his pets were capable of and since the combination of lyrium depravation and abject terror was pumping an exorbitant amount of courage-building fury through her veins, she figured that she may as well use it to her advantage. At best, he would reward her for her conviction. At worst, she would be a meal for an abomination. And if Captain Sul really was just toying with them and they all died anyway, at least she could stand proud at the Maker's side in the knowledge that she had not faltered. All that the Maker has wrought is in his hand, beloved and precious to him.

The camp had become very quiet. Captain Sul's expression remained utterly inscrutable.

_If only I could see his eyes._

The silence continued to stretch, transitioning from uncomfortable to unbearable. Several of the members of the Legion exchanged looks as they contemplated what form the coming apocalypse would take.

Lazily, Sul reached for another strip of dried ham and fed it to the purring cat on his lap. He smiled faintly at the sight and scratched the cat lightly under the chin.

The silence continued to stretch on and Ceyrabeth felt her unease reach the breaking point, "Well?!" she demanded.

Sul lazily turned his attention to her, "Well, what?"

That bastard. He knew exactly _what. _"Do you acknowledge my grievance, or don't you?" she shouted even as she felt heat rush to her cheeks.

"Yes, I heard you the first time, Ser Knight," Sul leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful expression, "I'm curious to know what you're going to do about it."

"I—" The young woman stopped, completely off balance. What in the Void _could _she do about it, really? _Don't let him intimidate you! _She thought, and stuck her chin out defiantly, "The Order dictates—"

"As you wish."

Ceyrabeth stopped short again, "What?" she asked, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"You wish to settle your grievance?"

"Yes!" She felt her blood pounding in her head as the desire to rend this man limb from limb reemerged. She was dimly aware that something was off- the overwhelming desire for violence was almost frightening in its intensity, even to her.

"Very well then. What are your terms?"

"My-?"

One eyebrow arched, "Surely you do not require another reminder of the definition of the word 'terms'?"

Laughter began to echo around the camp as Ceyrabeth ground her teeth together so hard they hurt. That Maker-damned, unfeeling mongrel was _toying _with her! She clenched her fists to still the shaking in her hands.

"The Order demands justice!"

"And you speak for the Order, I take it?"

Ceyrabeth injected as much acid as she could into her tone, "I realize that seeing may be hard for you, but I _am _the one standing here in Templar Armor…"

"I see more than you know," his tone exceeded her own for venom, "For instance, your armor does not fit you very well. It was not made for you. Is it customary for a woman in your position to inherit second-hand armor?"

"Is it customary for a man in your position to examine a lady's clothing in such detail?" She shot back.

"It customary for a man in my position to examine every detail, no matter how…insignificant they may seem at first."

More quiet laughter. Ceyrabeth cursed herself for leaving herself so vulnerable but she jutted her chin out proudly, "I will have you know that I am both a lady and a knight."

"As you say." His tone spoke of disinterest. "Well Ser Ceyrabeth; if the Order demands justice, if _you_ demand justice," the older man spread his arms magnanimously, "Claim it."

Claim it? Claim what? Did he really think that she was going to draw her sword and attack him in the middle of his bodyguards? How truly stupid did he think she was? Ceyrabeth cast about as it began to sink in how truly alone her and her brethren really were. Her burst of defiance was rapidly wearing off. She was foundering, and she knew it. "In the name of the Chantry, I…I demand that you disband your forces and surrender to the rightful authority of the Chantry!"

"No," Sul replied simply.

"No?!" Ceyrabeth sputtered, "What do you mean 'no?"

"The word is self-explanatory; the logic should be as well."

Ceyrabeth was flailing madly for some stable ground, a position of strength, anything that would allow her to regain her equilibrium, "The Order dictates—"

"What the Templar order, or the Orlesian Chantry, or Andraste herself dictates is not my concern," he explained calmly, "Should the Maker wish to make a request in person, I will consider it."

Ceyrabeth was too stunned to speak; from any other man it would have sounded thunderously arrogant bordering on buffoonery. From him, said with that calm tone that neither boasted nor grandstanded but simply stated, it was deeply disturbing. "You…you are a traitor and a murderer and I will not allow…"

"I am a warrior," Sul interjected, "And I claim no allegiance to the Orlesian Chantry, the Templar Order or the monarchs of Thedas, I have _betrayed_ nothing and no one."

"A child says 'I did not trip him' when his brother steps on a toy he deliberately put in his brother's way…but still he is punished for it."

A dark shadow settled across Sul's face, "You may dispense with the platitudes. Do not presume to moralize to me, Ser Ceyrabeth de Montfort," Sul said softly, "Not even under a banner of parlay."

Ceyrabeth felt a shiver work its way down her spine as for the first time she clearly understood the kind of man that could command creatures like Chirak and Reaper Maul. The kind of man that she should be very careful of if she wanted to get her brothers out of this place alive.

"I shall share with you a lesson that I have learned," Sul interjected. He had not raised his voice, but for some reason Ceyrabeth found her words dying on her tongue. "'Orders' and other groups that feel it within their power to dictate the actions of others tend to have two tools at their disposal: the coin or the sword," Sul reclined in his chair, "You have neither. You and your…Order…can neither buy me with treasures nor bully me with threats. I will not reasoned with. I will not be negotiated with,"

"Then you lied." Beth forced out. "Why are we standing here, if you never meant to listen?"

Sul's expression darkened further, "I did not lie. I shall indeed listen, but do not think that your position or affiliations can be used to coerce any manner of concessions from me."

Sul rose to his feet, dislodging the cat from his lap, "Here, in this place, before me and before the eyes of the Maker itself, there is no Chantry. There is no Templar Order. There is only The Legion!" he turned his back on the woman and sat back in his chair, "You may not believe that we are the 'rightful' authority, but as far as you and your Templar brethren are concerned, I am the only authority," he reached out with a gloved hand, "In this place, all that remains is power," he clenched his hand so tightly that the black leather stretched around it creaked loudly, "…And the will to use it."

He steepled his fingers, "You are alone, Crusader. You lack the will and you have no power here." He looked past Ceyrabeth focused on some point upon the horizon as he heard old words creep from the misty past to intrude upon his present thoughts….

"_Speak only the Word; sing only the Chant."_

_A learned child is a blessing upon his parents and onto the Maker._

"_Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they. Who have taken His gift and turned it against His children."_

_All that the Maker has wrought is in His hand. Beloved and precious to Him. _

"_Those who oppose thee shall know the wrath of heaven."_

_Despair not, said She, for your betrayal was Maker-blessed and returned me to His side. I am forgiven._

"_Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written."_

_Let the blade pass through the flesh, Let my blood touch the ground, Let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice._

"_Submit!"_

_Decide._

"Monster!"

Ceyrabeth's scream of rage shattered Sul's musings on the past and jolted his thoughts back to the present. For a moment, a terrible weariness overtook him and he was grateful for Atiya's steadying hand on his shoulder as he came out of the impromptu flashback.

"The Captain has spoken. There shall be a short—"

"To the Void with the Captain!" Ceyrabeth snarled, drawing her sword, careful to keep the scabbard pointing away from her face. She shouldered the guards out of the way, intent on plunging her weapon into the chest of the man that surveyed her with such a casual air.

She closed the distance quickly but before she could strike she heard something growl,

"**No…..hurt…..mass-terrrr!"**

A shape streaked out of the darkness, colliding into the woman with the force of a golem and sending her sprawling to the ground. She was dimly aware of claws raking deep furrows into her armor and snapping teeth trying to get to her face as whatever was attacking her hissed and spat. Ceyrabeth thrust her sword out blindly only to have it knocked out of her hand with such force that she felt her wrist break with an audible **snap**!

She brought her other arm up in a desperate attempt to defend herself, and the cat plunged its fangs into her armor, penetrating the mail as if it wasn't there. Its one eye glared hatefully as it began to glow a dim red. Then his other eye opened slowly and revealed a burning orb of roiling fire. Ceyrabeth felt her gauntlet begin to inexplicably heat up. The heat spread to her breastplate, and soon she couldn't help but scream as she was cooked within her own armor.

Suddenly, the cat yowled deafeningly and Ceyrabeth tore her arm free. She clamped both hands over her ears as the high-pitched scream rolled over her like a wave. She felt blood began to leak from her eyes, ears, and nose and spatter with a sizzling hiss upon the armor that was now glowing a hateful orange as it continued to burn her body.

"That'll do," Came Sul's soft voice. The cat ceased its attack turned to face him, its ears flat against its skull.

"**Kill for Massss-ter!"** It hissed, **"Eat itssssssssssssssssss face!"**

"I am unharmed. Please come here."

The cat turned back to face Ceyrabeth. She hardly noticed through the agony of her flesh beginning to blister. Then he swiped a claw across her face, drawing blood, and jumped off her.

This didn't even register to Ceyrabeth- she was more concerned with removing the burning armor from her body. Ser Keiran and Ser Quinlan raced to assist. After a few frantic seconds of blinding pain and fear, the breastplate fell to the ground with a dull sound, her mutilated gauntlet following shortly after. The metal continued to glow angrily in the dirt for a handful of moments before it began to cool.

The cat raced back to Sul and jumped in his lap.

"**I good kitty." **

Sul smiled and scratched him behind the ears, "Always."

The cat nuzzled his scarred face against Sul's bandages, purring loudly before curling up into a ball upon his lap. Sul stroked his back gently, "Permit me to introduce Osen; my bodyguard."

Osen lifted up its head and hissed at Ceyrabeth as she struggled to her feet before laying his head back down. Ceyrabeth, not yet able to speak, just glared at it with eyes glazed with pain and hissed back. Ser Quinlan tried to speak forcefully but he was rattled to the core. "What manner of abomination-?!"

"Former abomination, if we're being truthful," Sul scratched Osen lightly under the chin before turning to Atiya, "Please send for the White Vanguards and Sister Giselle to tend the young woman's wounds."

"Yes, Captain."

"And find Osen something large to dismember."

"I have a Bronto available."

Sul nodded his approval as Atiya looked down at Osen.

"Osen, come."

The cat opened its one eye lazily, eyed the Qunari with disinterest and closed it again.

"Osen," Sul whispered into his tufted ear, "Meat."

Osen quickly sprang off his lap and rubbed against Atiya's shins. Atiya gave Sul an even look and he shrugged slightly before she and Osen departed.

"I challenge you!" Ceyrabeth cried out staggering to her feet bits of her clothing still smoldering. A tiny voice in her head was screaming at her that this was the worst possible idea, and she didn't consider herself to be particularly suicidal…but something had broken within her. She had held herself back too long and couldn't for the life of her figure out how to regain control. "Trial by combat for the murder of Knight-Lieutenant Parette!"

"Do you?" Sul asked, keeping any implication of mockery from his tone.

"Unless you're a coward! You hide behind your demons and abominations and don't dare raise a finger for yourself…" She caught the scent of alcohol and violence before a voice hissed in her ear.

"Go ahead. Call the Cap'n a coward again," Maul seethed, "Please."

The woman refused to be baited and kept her eyes fixed on Captain Sul, "Well?"

"Ah yes," Sul mused aloud, "I remember. This is when I am to erupt in a display of injured pride and rush forth to challenge a well trained combat veteran thirty years my junior," he leaned forward, "I'm willing to admit that your eagerness to fight is refreshing, given your current condition." Sul gestured to Maul.

"Down you go," Maul gave Ceyrabeth a casual shove and the injured woman's legs buckled underneath her. She crashed to the ground, crying out in pain on impact, "That's for calling the Cap'n a 'coward' ya moisten wench!" The elf then made an obscene hand gesture at the fallen knight before turning his attention to Sul, "Do you need anything else Cap'n?"

Sul smiled faintly, "No, thank you Sergeant," his expression hardened as he scrutinized the young woman, "I believe the point has been made."

"Yes, sir!" Maul saluted crisply and, giving Ceyrabeth a snort of derision, he turned on his heels and marched away.

"Your commander was not murdered," Sul said quietly, "He was executed for dereliction of duty and behavior unbecoming a Templar officer. Your Chantry would have done the same in the unlikely event that Parette was subjected to a fair trial."

Ceyrabeth couldn't determine what part of her body hurt most: the claw wounds, the burns, the shattered wrist, or the cracked ribs from being thrown from her horse in the bog but she struggled to her feet anyway. She would be damned if she would show her frailty to this _fiend_, "Do you remember what it was to have a conscience?" The rage was receding, taking with it the strength she desperately needed. Her voice was almost pleading, her sable eyes looking wider than ever in a face drawn with pain. "Kindness? Decency?"

"More than you know," Sul replied almost too quietly for her to hear. His expression softened. Became almost vulnerable. Ceyrabeth couldn't decide before it was gone entirely. "Perhaps you should ask your former Knight-Lieutenant about decency and conscience?" Captain Sul's tone remained soft but the words could freeze molten stone, "It's said that you can tell a great deal about a soldier by who they choose to serve. Your master was an immoral and incompetent man who betrayed his wards for profit. Tell me, Ceyrabeth, what does that say about you? Or am I to believe that you were blind and utterly oblivious to your former commander's corruption?"

His words scourged the young woman raw. Ceyrabeth went white to the lips. She swayed, trying to find something to clutch for support and found nothing. _Nothing _could ease the fact that Sul was absolutely right, and Ceyrabeth knew it, could not dispute it in the slightest. She felt cold wash over her, threatening to drive her to her knees. It was the ghost of an old sensation that coursed through her body- the frigid bite of a blade wielded by a lover as it was driven into her body all the way up to the hilt without mercy or affection.

"Sister Giselle will tend to you now. Dismissed."

Ceyrabeth dimly felt gentle fingers on her arm and a quiet Orlesian voice, "Come away, child," her grip tightened, "This battle cannot be won. Not yet."

Ceyrabeth couldn't walk, could barely think. She just continued to stare wide-eyed at the man who had so easily found the most hidden of her shames and dragged it into the unforgiving light. She didn't know whether she wanted to rip out his heart or throw herself at his feet, pour out her shame and beg for forgiveness.

"Take heart, Lady Knight," Sul's voice slid into Ceyrabeth's thoughts like a dagger, "You'll have your opportunity for justice…or vengeance should you so choose."

Ceyrabeth might have nodded, she was unsure. Instead, she allowed Sister Giselle to lead her away from the command tent. When she looked up, she the saw eyes of her brothers accusing her for her complacency. Quinlan, who had vouched for her many times when others tried to label her inadequate. Keiran, who had looked up to her, had been her friend. Corellan who, though she always rebuffed him, had seen something lovely about her that she did not see. She tried to think of something noble to say, she tried to think of the Chant. Her shame silenced her and she allowed herself to led away like the walking dead. She was dimly aware of Atiya walking past her to return to her commander's side.

"You appear to have struck the girl a mortal blow," Atiya commented tonelessly as she approached Sul.

"I know," Sul replied quietly, "I'm curious to see if she has the strength to recover."

"And if she does not?"

"Then she is weak and she does not matter."

"…As you say, Captain."

.:*:.

"You _knew!_"

Ceyrabeth didn't even bother turning around as Keiran rushed past her and Sister Giselle to confront her, "You knew what Parette was doing! The boy! The deal with Uldred and the mages! All of it!"

"Yes," she replied softly, "I knew."

"And you did nothing?!"

"I went to the Knight-Captain about the boy…he said that they would take care of it."

"And you believed him?"

"Obviously."

"And Uldred?"

Ceyrabeth's silence told Keiran everything he wanted to know. He shook his head in disbelief, "I can't believe _you _would…"

Her control snapped, "He was our commanding officer! Our leader! We are Templars! We obey! We are called to a higher purpose! We do not question! That is the will of the Maker and that is the law!"

Kieran laughed bitterly, "No, we're not. When Parette took that gold and you said nothing, we lost our honor and our decency. You're not a Templar anymore, none of us are. You're _a whore _and you've made us all whores_!_"

His head rocked back from the force of the blow as Ceyrabeth's hand slapped him hard across the face.

"You will not speak to me like that!" Privately she was horrified by her actions, but she could not afford to show weakness. Not here, not while under the scrutiny of Sul and his minions, "Like it or not, I am still your commanding officer."

Kieran gently touched his lips and drew back blood. He gave a little, broken laugh before looking back at Ceyrabeth.

"Not anymore."

Slowly, he unwound the peace knot from around his hilt.

"What are you doing?" Ceyrabeth demanded.

He didn't answer her, instead he slowly drew his blade. Ser Quinlan and Ser Corellan exchanged worried looks as the boy scrutinized the weapon in his hands, "All my life," He murmured, "I thought I understood…" He looked back at the young woman, "Well, I understand now. And I hate it."

And then, he threw his sword into the mud at Ceyrabeth's feet.

"Kieran, you can't do this!"

"I can," he replied simply as he dropped his shield and helm into the mud, "I am."

"But why?!"

"Because I can't follow you and follow my conscience at the same time," He replied sadly, "What we are doing; this isn't the Maker's work. Not anymore."

"But where will you go?"

"Who says I'll go anywhere?"

Ceyrabeth followed that thought to its logical conclusion and her eyes went wide, "No! I will not allow you to pledge your life to that madman!"

"It's _my_ life, Beth. And you don't have a say with what I do with it anymore."

Beth. The formerly-affectionate nickname was enough to make Ceyrabeth want to throw her arms around him and beg him not to leave. Instead, she straightened her back and injected a chill into her voice, "It's _Ser _Ceyrabeth, Serah Keiran. I have _earned_ my title, regardless of how you feel about it." She deliberately turned her back on him. "Now go. I think I hear your master calling. Maybe if you sit at his feet, he'll feed you bits of meat as well as he does for his pet demons"

She turned her head as he passed, refusing to watch him walk away. She dashed a hand across her eyes, angry enough that she was crying over a traitor but absolutely furious that the motion brought pain from her shattered wrist. She was so _tired _of being in pain, of always being the one who was crushed and broken.

"And what of you?" Ceyrabeth whirled on Quinlan and Corellan. "Anything to say?"

"Nothing, Knight-Lieutenant." Ser Quinlan answered evenly as Corellan mutely shook his head. Quinlan actually had plenty to say, Ceyrabeth could tell, but like the excellent soldier that he was he was keeping it to himself. Ceyrabeth had no doubt that Corellan would follow Keiran, but quietly, in the dead of night, with no scenes and no goodbyes. She had no idea how many of the others she would lose to that…that…_Fereldan whoreson_ and his insanity but right then, she felt the loss of all of them.

"Come, child. Sit down. You are shaking," She parted the tent flaps and motioned her to a bunk. "This is my assistant, Sister Petrice," Sister Giselle gestured to a severe-looking young woman who indicated the arrival of the injured Templars with barely a nod of acknowledgement.

"Good afternoon, Ser Templar," Sister Petrice said stiffly in a thick Free Marchers accent.

Ceyrabeth realized with a start that they were in the healer's tent. She _was_ shaking and suddenly her knees buckled. She dimly realized that she hadn't hit the ground because Ser Quinlan had caught her and was laying her down on a nearby cot. "Quinn…" Ceyrabeth cried out as the burns made themselves known with a vengeance. "You should have been the one to speak…I never should have…"

"Hush, Ceyrabeth." He opened the pouch at his belt and gave the vial within a gentle shake before uncorking it and pouring it down her throat.

The lyrium hit her blood just as Sister Giselle placed her hands over her chest and began work on the burns and cracked ribs. She laughed then sobbed at the sweet release of it, the lack of physical agony. But then the rush of emotional anguish hit like a landslide, until the combination of two opposing feelings was too much and she finally fell into blessed darkness.

.:*:.

It was a very subdued Ser Ceyrabeth that was brought back to the command tent later. She had deliberately left off arms and armor-without it she looked as vulnerable as she felt, all scarred, wiry arms and big, wide eyes. She stepped forward before she could lose courage and went down on one knee before Captain Sul, head bowed so low her red hair tumbled in a loose curtain about her face.

"I fully acknowledge my earlier disrespect to you, Captain," She said, her voice carrying clearly to all corners of the tent. "However, my men are innocent of my actions and I beg your mercy on them. If you will release those who wish to go, with arms and armor intact and supplies enough to reach civilization, I stand prepared to accept whatever terms you see necessary to mete out. I claim no concession for myself."

A moment of silence and then, "Rise Ser Knight," Sul said cordially. "I am glad to see that you remember that you are a brave warrior with the courage of convictions. You do not bow to me,"

Ceyrabeth frowned in confusion as she struggled to her feet. Pain wracked her body- even the healers couldn't fix everything, she thought wryly- and she stumbled until she felt strong hands bracing her. She looked up in surprise into Atiya's expressionless face.

"Thank you," Ceyrabeth said.

"It is the Captain's way," she offered flatly, "And it is _my_ way."

"I see," Ceyrabeth replied quietly. Now that she had a chance to see Atiya's face up close, she felt a pang of sadness- the woman's scars around her lips looked raised and painful as if someone had stitched her mouth closed at some point.

"We have a matter to discuss," Sul informed them, "Bring him."

Ceyrabeth heard footsteps behind her and she turned. She felt a sharp pain pierce her heart as Kieran entered the room, no longer garbed in his Templar armor but instead in a homespun tunic and breeches.

"This man has petitioned for membership into the Phoenix Legion," Captain Sul explained, not unkindly.

Ceyrabeth felt tears burn in her eyes but she simply nodded.

Kieran took a deep breath- A nervous habit, Ceyrabeth knew- before striding confidently forward and prostrating himself at Sul's feet, "I pledge myself to your cause, Captain Sul. My sword and my life is yours."

"Noted," Sul said, "Your petition is refused."

"What?!" Kieran and Ceyrabeth both exclaimed.

"Your sword and your life are not yours own," He nodded towards Ceyrabeth, "They are hers; your commander. And I will not be party to desertion."

Right then, Ceyrabeth forgot how to talk and Kieran wasn't much better. He recovered eventually, though he still sounded stunned, "But…but there must be hundreds of people who've joined you that deserted!"

"Only those with no other choice," Sul gestured to the young woman, "Your commander is here. If you wish to enlist, you will do so with her permission or not at all," Sul opened his arms, "We are civilized, after all."

The mouth of every Templar sagged open in shock as Lieutenant Pellinore quickly hid a smile behind his hand. The Captain always managed to surprise others with his diplomatic acumen.

"But…but—"Kieran spluttered.

"I give it," Ceyrabeth whispered. The idea of her being his commander was still laughable to her. Once, years ago, he had posed a question to her, stammering but earnest. If she had answered that question differently then, she might have the right to hold him back now. But she hadn't, and the tenuous link they had as temporary commander and soldier didn't seem strong enough.

"What?!" Ser Quinlan and Ser Corellan cried aloud in unison.

Ceyrabeth lifted her head, "Ser Kieran has my blessings to join the Phoenix Order."

Kieran smiled, hugged Ceyrabeth before she could dodge. "Thank you Beth."

She didn't even bother to correct his familiarity, her next words tasting like ash on her tongue. "I wish to submit a petition to join as well."

This time, every face in the Command Tent locked shocked….Every face except Sul's and Atiya's. Atiya wore her usual placid expression and Sul's expression was inscrutable.

"What?!" All the other Templars screamed in indignation.

"Andraste's flaming arse!" Maul swore softly.

When the furor died down, Sul regarded the pair of supplicants, "Why?" He asked simply.

Ceyrabeth licked dry lips; she had to be very careful, "Because I—"

"If the next words you speak are not the unadulterated truth, Maul will shatter every bone in your body," Sul added quietly.

Maul grinned broadly as he began to crack his knuckles loudly. "_Shit_," Ceyrabeth sighed.

"Beth!" Kieran said, aghast, "You swore!"

"Yes, thank you Kieran, I noticed," She rubbed her temples and exhaled hard before looking up at Sul, "I'm going to join because you need to be stopped. The Maker, Andraste, the Chantry, everything belief that I hold dear tells me that you and your Legion must be ended, and the best way to do that is to here," She looked straight into his bandaged face, "Know your enemy—"

"—as you would know yourself," Sul finished, "Where did you hear that?" He asked curiously.

Ceyrabeth frowned at his tone, "I read it in an old book. Why, where did you?"

Sul didn't respond right away, he settled into his high-backed chair and rubbed a finger across his upper lip, "So, you will stop me?"

Ceyrabeth nodded, "Yes."

"Through whatever means necessary?"

"Yes."

"Even through my death?"

Ceyrabeth closed her eyes, knowing that her next words could very well be her last, "Yes."

"Bitch!" Maul roared as he stormed towards the girl, "I'm going to fold you in half!"

"Cease," Sul instructed in a calm voice infused with steel.

"But Cap'n-!"

Sul shifted his attention from Ceyrabeth to Maul and raised a single eyebrow.

"This hopped-up little chantry rat says she's going to murder you because her Chantry doesn't like you! I'm not going to let-!"

"That is correct, Sergeant," Sul's voice cracked like a whip, "It is not your duty to 'let' anything happen. You are an officer under my command. And if you wish to remain so, you will calm yourself and stand down."

Maul's expression crumpled under Sul's scorn, "Cap'n, I—"

Sul held up his hand, "You are a loyal soldier, Reaper Maul and it is my privilege to serve with you," He returned his attention to Ceyrabeth, "Take heart, I have no intentions of being assassinated. Not by her or anyone," Sul raised his voice to be heard by everyone else, "My duty to Thedas remains and so _I_ shall remain," His tone became more pointed, "Regardless of the wishes of the Chantry, The Maker, or a certain ex-templar, however dedicated she may be," Sul returned his attention to Maul, "Return to your post, Sergeant."

Maul saluted smartly, grinning madly, "Yes, sir!" He spun on his heels and leveled a finger at Ceyrabeth, "_Touch_ him and I'll make you beg for death before the end. Got that?!"

Ceyrabeth swallowed nervously at the zeal in the elf's expression: he meant it. It didn't halt her conviction, didn't change her wishes in the slightest, but it did make her aware of just how carefully she would have to tread.

Maul gave Captain Sul a slightly embarrassed looking shrug and hurried off as Ceyrabeth's brain caught up with Sul's words, "'Ex-Templar'?" She hazarded.

"Your petition to join the Legion is approved," Sul informed her, "As is Keiran's."

More shocked looks were exchanged along with quiet exclamations that their captain had taken leave of his senses.

Atiya leaned down to whisper in Sul's ear, "My Captain, are you certain that is wise?"

"No," Sul replied with a small smile, "But it should be interesting," He got to his feet, "I do have one question though for our would-be assassin."

"Yes, sir?" Ceyrabeth managed to choke out. _Better get used to it _she thought darkly as Captain Sul's smile took on an edge.

"How long have you been masquerading as human?"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Ceyrabeth felt the world tilt underneath her feet. She fumbled for her sword before remembering that she had left it behind, "I don't know what you're—"

"Do not lie," Sul replied coldly, "Not to me nor to yourself," A shadow flickered across his features as he approached her, "You've done that for far too long, I imagine."

"Beth?" Keiran asked, looking very confused, "What's he talking about?"

"I….I…" She stammered.

"_Ma fael na ma valla da shiral_," Sul whispered softly, "'My honor and my life are one,'"

"I don't…understand." Keiran's eyes flickered from Ceyrabeth to Sul.

The Captain kindly elaborated, "It was the solemn oath of the Emerald Knights of the Dales, protectors of the elven homeland before the Orlesian Chantry saw fit to exterminate them all during their so called 'exalted' march. And I-"

Suddenly, he stumbled and nearly fell. Atiya was at his side in an instant, holding him steady, "Drachaen," She said in her even tone.

Sul smiled faintly, "The perils of age, I fear, old friend," He gently patted her larger hand, "I am well, Atiya, thank you. Release me."

Carefully, Atiya steadied the older man, "I shall prepare your tonic," She whispered and carefully released him, though she did not stray from his side.

Sul continued as if nothing had occurred, "I sincerely doubt you learned about the Emerald Knights within the halls of the illustrious Orlesian Chantry. There is only one other alternative."

"I…I don't," Ceyrabeth looked about frantically like a caged animal.

"Show me your ears."

"What? No!"

"Show me you ears, please."

Her jaw took on a stubborn set that was becoming painfully familiar. "No!"

"Beth?" Kieran asked puzzled, "Just show him your ears."

"Show me your ears. _Now_," Sul's tone brooked no further argument.

With a shaking hand, Ceyrabeth drew back her red hair to reveal her ears: they were unremarkable except that they appeared to have been mutilated midway past the auricle.

"An apostate did it," Ceyrabeth faltered, "I was captured and tortured."

"You were tortured," Sul nodded. He reached out to take hold of her face and she found that she could not pull away, "But the angle of these cuts tells me that it was by your own hand. You docked your ears, like a beast, so that you could be counted amongst the ranks of Andraste's faithful as their wretched Chantry dictates," His touch was feverishly hot and it seared Ceyrabeth's skin like a branding iron though she could not recoil. She stared into the folds of his bindings and was certain she saw movement beneath them though of what manner she could not say.

"Why must it be thus?" Sul whispered as he ran his fingers lightly over the mutilated tissue. Ceyrabeth noted that his hands appeared oddly smooth and young-looking for a man his age, "Why must they take all that it is fair, all that is natural and good, and diminish it for the sin of uniqueness?" The elven woman was not certain if it was his words or his tone but it made something in her _ache._

Carefully, Sul arranged her crimson locks to cover her ears again and then placed his hands upon them once again, "This will hurt."

"Wha-?" Ceyrabeth began and then she felt something press against her flesh and then _penetrate _her. Her mouth and eyes opened wide as she felt her flesh begin to soften like wax between his thumbs and forefingers; the feeling was indescribable and she had a horrid flashback to her former commander being consumed by Chirak. She began to convulse uncontrollably, her eyes rolled back into her head and her mouth began to open and close gasping like a fish for air.

"Beth!" Kieran cried out, unable to see what was being done to her but clearly able to see the effects wrack her thin body.

"No," Atiya's voice stated calmly and her hand settled on his shoulder gently, but as firm as an iron lock. Kieran could only look on helplessly as Ceyrabeth continued to shudder and shake, the blood rushing to her face with such force that she seemed almost to glow.

Suddenly, Sul released her and Ceyrabeth collapsed to the floor, her body spasming uncontrollably.

"Beth!" Kieran lunged under Atiya's hand and she released him to attend Sul who carefully stepped away from Ceyrabeth's form. Kieran raced to her side and reached out to her.

"Don't touch me!" She screamed. She wrapped her arms around herself for protection and to her shame she began to cry- hard, painful sobs that seemed like they tore her throat with each pull. Nothing- NOTHING- she had ever felt came close to this, this utter and complete _violation _that wracked her down to her very core.

"What did you do to me?!" She demanded of Sul.

"No worse than what you had already done to yourself," Sul replied wearily, "Had you even bled as a woman yet before you carved apart your own body to appease them?" He held up an iron sunburst amulet, the symbol of the Chantry held together by a simple leather thong.

Ceyrabeth gasped and her hands shot to her throat where the amulet had once rested.

"Beth," Kieran whispered in shock and pointed at her head. Ceyrabeth's hands hurried back up to her ears: They were long and perfectly shaped tapering to a delicate point.

"I-," Shock robbed her of her words as she removed a small piece of metal from her tunic that she kept for sending signals and examined herself in the reflection. The metal twisted and distorted her image but there was no ignoring the two elven ears that now adorned either side of her head.

"Drachaen, calm yourself," Atiya's voice broke in flatly. Ceyrabeth turned to look and could not repress a gasp. Sul had the iron symbol clenched tightly in his fist and soon blood began to dribble from between his fingers. Suddenly the bandages around his eyes also began to soak with blood and soon twin rivulets ran down his pained face.

"Why must it be thus?" He whispered.

"You're bleeding!"

Sul hesitated and then wiped away the blood leaking from under his bandages, "No," He replied, "I am not," He turned his head, "Pellinore."

"Sir?" The elven lieutenant stepped forward.

"See to our newest recruits and then report back to me," He pointed at Ceyrabeth who was still shaking like a leaf, "See that her hair is trimmed; she has hidden for long enough."

"Yes, sir!"

Sul turned his attention back to the serene Qunari, "Atiya, take me back to my tent."

"Yes, Drachaen," Carefully, Atiya helped the smaller man away.

"What have you done to me?" Ceyrabeth cried out.

Sul did not turn, "Corrected an error in judgment. One of many to come," He continued to walk away.

"Your arrogance will be your undoing! You defy the Chantry, Andraste, and The Maker Himself. The armies of the righteous will march upon you and destroy you utterly!" Ceyrabeth screamed, tears of rage, pain and fear running down her face.

"My arrogance," Sul said softly. He then turned to face the enraged woman. She stood proud and defiant, filled with righteous fury, "My arrogance…" He turned his head to address the Qunari, "Atiya I would address our men."

Atiya removed a large ornate horn from her belt and blasted a series of sharp notes. The resonance of the sound made Ceyrabeth's bones vibrate even as it nagged her with a strange sense of familiarity.

"The Captain would speak!" Atiya's voice boomed across the camp. It didn't take long before men, women, and children huddled around the two as Atiya led Sul to a raised mound. Pellinore stepped forward and removed a small vial from his belt. He tossed it upon the ground and a large plume of green flameexploded into existence with a loud _whoosh _silencing at the crowd at once.

"Thank you Atiya," Sul said softly before turning his attention to the vast crowd that had gathered the green bonfire crackling quietly, "Brothers and Sisters of the Phoenix Legion, hear me!" The camp became quiet. He turned to gesture at Ceyrabeth, "We have been accused of acting in defiance of the Orlesian Chantry and by default in defiance of the blessed prophet Andraste, and the Maker Himself," The crowd began to scowl at Ceyrabeth who kept her face carefully neutral, determined to stand her ground, "I would answer these charges. I speak only for myself. May I speak for you as well?"

A roar of approval cascaded the answer.

"Thank you." Sul cleared his throat, "I derive a great deal of consolation that you have decided to allow me to speak for you. The severity of these charges cannot be overstated," He bent down to pick up a handful of stones,

"Heresy," He tossed a stone to land at Ceyrabeth's feet.

"Blasphemy."

Another stone.

"Treason."

The final stone lay at the elven woman's feet.

"According to the law of the Orlesian Chantry, there is only one sentence for these crimes: death! A slow death wrought with humiliation so that our suffering may serve as an example to those who would dare follow. No peace in the next world; only an existence in the dark, banished from the Maker's sight. Unwanted. Unmourned. Damned."

The Templars gathered looked at the faces looking back at them and became very nervous. Ceyrabeth slowly moved so that they were behind her- closer to Sul, yes, but at least she was between them and an angry mob if the worst happened. Not that she would be much help; suddenly leaving her weapons and armor off seemed like base folly.

"What are we to do about this?" Sul asked the crowd.

The few suggestions offered were extremely graphic and exceedingly final in their resolution. Every word out of their ignorant mouths made Beth stand straighter, her muscles tense. Ser Corellan and Ser Tregan exchanged fearful looks and stepped back away from Ceyrabeth's unyielding rage.

"Why are we here?" Sul cried out, "How is it that this ragtag band of heretics, pariahs, and outcasts have now come to form the largest privately administered military force in Ferelden? Do we fear that if we do not take up arms that those in power will see fit to destroy us for our defiance? Or is it because we have seen the state of Thedas with eyes unclouded by privilege, hypocrisy, or sanctimony, and have found it wanting?"

He cleared his throat again and Atiya handed her his waterskin from which he took a long drink.

"Thank you," He coughed once, "Here we stand together, from all corners of the world in defiance of tyranny. You are all free men! You have not been bought or bullied to risk all that you are in this world, not for me, nor for yourselves, but for each other! For Thedas!" He took another drink of water.

"The Orlesian Chantry, The Order of Templars, The Circles of Magi, The Nobility, and every power and order from Boeric Ocean to the Sundered Sea would label us 'rebels', 'malcontents' and worse. Why? What is they fear? We possess only a fraction of their numbers, their wealth, their influence. Do they fear our methods? Our ideals? Our way of life? Or do they fear something far more dangerous than any of these things:

"The Truth," He turned his bandaged gaze out amongst the assembled throng, "The truth," He repeated quietly.

"They would have us disregard the truth, even as it stands there proudly for all the world to see, mighty and unassailable. The truth which has been obscured and twisted, perverted and corrupted until it is almost unrecognizable. And not through any foul Tevinter plot or unholy alliance of blood mages and demons, nay but by the unyielding arm and unforgiving gaze of the Orlesian Chantry who has declared it to be blasphemy and us damned beyond redemption for believing in it."

The Templars shifted their gaze to their feet uncomfortably save for Ceyrabeth, whose fists were so tightly clenched that it sent jolts of pain through her entire arm.

"I say unto all of you that this is no mere peasant uprising or heretical movement, rather that this is the most important crusade since Andraste's march upon the Imperium. Because what it deals with is the very nature of man and The Maker."

Many eyes widened at the boldness of the last statement. Ceyrabeth's features became flushed and angry; she opened her mouth to speak.

"Don't even think about it, princess," Maul warned her, cracking his knuckles loudly, "I'll pull those fancy new ears right off your bloody head. Now shut your gob."

Ceyrabeth fell mutinously silent as Atiya handed Sul a stack of papers and an amulet depicting Andraste in a finely detailed ivory inlay.

"I have here transcriptions of letters, a correspondence between a Mother…," He frowned and ran his fingers over the letters, "…A Mother Dorothea in which she states her concerns about the treatment of mages in the city of Kirkwall and the state of the alienage in Denerim. These letters were addressed to Lord Seeker Lambert Van Reeves," He coughed once, "For those of you who are unfamiliar with this entity, The Seekers of Truth are a form of secret police that answers to only the highest ranks of The Orlesian Chantry Matriarchy. The Seekers of Truth are tasked with investigating The Knights Templar for signs of corruption or abuses of power," Sul smiled slightly, "I imagine those assembled here would have much to discuss with them given the opportunity."

There was a roll of laughter that was equal parts scorn, contempt, and amusement. Kieran felt his cheeks go red and Ceyrabeth's temper threatened to snap.

"Now, in these letters, Mother Dorothea cites several cases of Templar misconduct ranging from use of the rite of Tranquility as a punitive measure to accounts of rape, torture, and murder, amongst not only the mages they were sworn to protect, but also against elves, dwarves, Qunari, and men, women, and children too poor or too frightened to protect themselves. And even against one another: Templars of conscience, of righteousness murdered in their beds by their own for daring to question those in power."

Gasps of shock rippled through the crowd. Kieran, Corellan and Tregan were looking physically ill at this point. Quinlan, veteran that he was, stood taller, albeit with a face that was growing grimmer by the moment.

'Now," Sul continued, "Revered Mother Dorothea quotes a passage from the Chant of Light," He cleared his throat, "'All that the Maker has wrought is in His hand. Beloved and precious to Him,' Threnodies twelve-five. She quotes this passage and asks the Lord Seeker why this does not apply to mages, elves and others asking him 'Are we not all equal in the eyes of the Maker? In his love and compassion?' Sul looked out among the crowd, "Are we not indeed?"

He took another drink of water, coughing slightly, "I shall now read to you the Lord Seeker's reply. He starts by quoting a passage from Benedictions; 'Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written.' You may be familiar with this passage. It is the one that the Orlesian Chantry cites the most often to justify whatever action they have taken no matter how violent or merciless," Sul frowned at the parchments in his hand, "I cannot help but wonder if their actions are what Andraste intended or not, but I digress: Lord Seeker Lambert continues with the following,

"'What you consider to be compassion is nothing more than naiveté and fool idealism. Mages cannot be treated the same as people. Each and every one is a threat to the safety of themselves and those around them. Each and every one; an abomination waiting to happen'," Sul smiled bitterly, "I'll take a moment to let everyone ponder that sentiment."

The crowd's mood continued to darken. Hands tightened on sword hilts, bows, and staffs.

"He goes on to repeat that term 'Fool idealism' many times in these letters when Mother Dorothea talks about caring for those who cannot care for themselves or when allowing mercy or pity to dictate their actions. Well, what ideals _would _the Lord Seeker prefer, I wonder? Ideals that instead embrace intolerance, brutality, and fear? I think not and here is the crux of the matter," Sul leaned forward in earnest, "What the Lord Seeker wants is for the Chantry and those within in it to behave as The Templars do and as the Seekers do. A Chantry that will do what it is _told_: A Chantry that does _not_ question, a Chantry that is filled with the devout in perfect lockstep, fueled by nothing more than righteous anger and blind obedience," He gestured at Ceyrabeth, "A Chantry that this young woman would be proud to be a part of."

Ceyrabeth felt shame and humiliation deeper than any she had known in her life seep its way into her soul.

"Now these," He handed the parchments back to Atiya and took from her a letter, "are letters written by a Templar in Kirkwall by the name of Alrik Otto."

"Oh, Maker, no!" Ser Quinlan bemoaned.

"Who is that?" Kieran asked him with a frown.

"An embarrassment,"' He stated firmly while Beth nodded affirmation, "and an embodiment of everything wrong in our order."

"In these letters," Sul continued, "Ser Otto outlies his plan for 'The Tranquil Solution' in which he proposes that _every _mage in every circle in Thedas be made Tranquil. From Grand Enchanters, to children barely old enough to walk."

Silence descended upon the crowd like a pall, each and every one too horrified to speak.

"He asserts that 'Tranquility is neither morally wrong nor sinful in the eyes of the Maker. That throughout the Chant of Light, submission was the unifying theme: that Andraste's followers submitted to her will and that Andraste herself submitted to the Maker's will when she was executed by the Tevinter Imperium.' He goes on to say here that, 'Submission, obedience, and the desire to follow is intrinsic to faith, to sanctity, and to the very nature of mankind and that in forcing the Rite of Tranquility upon every mage or mage-potential, The Orlesian Chantry would be acting only as Andraste would, to ensure peace and order throughout the realm'." He carefully handed the papers back to Atiya,

"Thank you, Atiya," He turned back to the crowd, "Now, it is worth mentioning that Knight-Commander Meredith rejected the plan as did the current Divine- privately, of course. But it is _also _worth noting that upon that rejection, Otto Alrik was promoted by Knight-Commander Meredith to the rank of Knight-Lieutenant for his 'dedication to the ideals of the chantry and unfailing loyalty.' A promotion that increased the number of mages under tenfold. A promotion that Divine Beatrix the Third neither censured nor revoked."

"Those bastards!" A voice screamed out from within the crowd. Others quickly joined and the crowd rapidly approached a mob that looked ready to storm Val Royeaux and burn it to the ground.

"Is he _trying _to start a riot?" Ser Tregan hissed.

Sul held up a hand and the crowd quieted, "Well I am afraid that I must disagree with Ser Alrik's views, and with Knight-Commander Meredith and Divine Beatrix the Third who apparently shares those views, however tacitly and instead say that the nature of faith, of sanctity, and of mankind is _not _in fact submission but instead something far more dangerous: liberty."

Sul cast a look around the crowd, "I say that liberty and, more than liberty… _freedom_… is the nature of what it is means to be faithful, to be sacred, to be alive. Liberty, _not _blind submission. And as proof, I offer the actions of those who have been deprived their freedom, deprived of their Maker-given liberty. They will rise against their captors, they will make war against their oppressors, they will fight and bleed and die, rather than surrender," He smiled as he moved in for the kill, "They will even follow….a woman, an escaped slave with nothing more than a name and claims that the Maker has spoken her against the mightiest empire the world had ever known before making the ultimate sacrifice in act of devotion and humility."

Ceyrabeth let him have his moment, as cheers and accolades rolled in from all sides. She let him stand there and soak it in, while the rage turned hard as diamond in her gut and twice as sharp. She bent down to pick up the stones at her feet and as the crowd quieted, she deliberately dropped them again one by one. _Blasphemy…heresy….treason. _

You. Know. _Nothing._" Ser Ceyrabeth hissed, her voice quiet. She was not speaking for the masses, had almost forgotten they were there. She spoke straight to Sul. "Nothing of me, nothing of _them,"_ She swept her arm out to indicate her Templars, "And certainly nothing of the Maker. I find it funny, that for all your talk about liberty and supposed disdain for brutality, how you had absolutely no trouble viciously robbing me of a choice I made because it didn't conform to your ideal. My story was _not yours to tell_ and yet, here you are telling it. Will I be fitted for my leash and collar after my hair is shorn, Captain? Will it be struck off when I embrace your _freedom _and _liberty?_" She held up a hand before the Captain could answer. "I know the answer already, so there's no need to weary yourself further."

"Your story," Sul gestured at Ceyrabeth, "You're from Kirkwall, correct?" Ceyrabeth's eyes narrowed hatefully but she said nothing, "Is that your story? You're an elf from Kirkwall? Is that the summation of Ceyrabeth? No, you're a young girl who grew up in an alienage who sacrificed everything she was to be included in an order whose saw fit to defy their own prophet and launched a crusade to conquer their lands and grind her ancestors beneath their collective boot. How did that make you feel, Ceyrabeth? Knowing what they did to your people and swearing your allegiance to them. How did your family feel when you told them?"

A spasm of pain shoot across Ceyrabeth's features before she could suppress it.

"I see," Sul said softly, "Your family was taken from you. Who slew them? Bandits? Nobles seeking a bit of sport?" He frowned and shook his head, "No…." He mused, "A young girl does not cut off her own ears simply for acceptance nor security….but for revenge."

"No!" Ceyrabeth couldn't stop herself from crying out, filled with shame, rage, and denial.

"An abomination," He said softly, "Your family, your community, ravaged by an abomination."

"No!" Ceyrabeth cried again.

"Where were the Templars? When a monstrosity was butchering your loved ones? Where were they?" Sul waited for a few moments, but Ceyrabeth couldn't answer, "They didn't show, because the Orlesian Chantry doesn't have time for dead elves."

"That's not true! A Templar _did_ come and she-!"

"She?" Sul's voice stopped her cold.

Ceyrabeth's face went white and she placed her hands over her mouth, eyes wide.

"Oh, I see," Sul sighed, "There is only one Templar in Kirkwall who would have the dedication to enter an elven alienage to fight an abomination. One woman who would then take in an orphan girl and indoctrinate her into her order. And only one who would then convince that girl to saw off her own ears."

"Please!"

"Meredith Stannard. You were the squire of Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard. I remember rumors of a young girl in Knight-Commander Meredith's company. A striking young girl with red hair. Those rumors hinted that the nature of that relationship had become intimate."

"You were _sleeping _with Knight-Commander Meredith?!" Kieran exclaimed agog. In fact, all of the men looked very surprised- except for Quinlan. He didn't flinch at the news; simply watched Beth with something akin to sympathy in his eyes.

"No!" Ceyrabeth protested, "I mean, she wasn't Knight-Commander when we—."

"It would appear those rumors were true," Sul nodded thoughtfully, "There was also a very public falling out in the form of a duel that ended badly for the young girl in the form of a broken arm," Sul gestured at Ceyrabeth, "Would you be willing to raise both of your arms above your head?"

"I will not!" Ceyrabeth spat.

"Thank you, I believe that tells me what I wished to know," Sul bent down to pick up a stone.

"Beth, you told us you broke your arm when you were young!" Kieran exclaimed.

"Kieran, no!" But it was too late.

"Did she?" Sul commented, "Why?"

"The Void take you!" Ceyrabeth replied furiously.

"Fair enough," Sul's lowered his face to look down at the stone in his hand, "Catch."

He tossed the stone high and above the elf's right shoulder. Her hand automatically shot up to catch it and then drew short and she gasped as an old pain lanced through her arm. The stone fell to the ground.

"You're right handed," Sul spoke calmly, "But you draw your weapon with your left, your shield on the right," Sul rubbed a finger across his upper lip in contemplation, "How old were you when you first broke your arm? Old enough for it to heal poorly, young enough to be taught how to use your other arm. By Meredith."

"Stop!" Ceyrabeth implored, "Please, just stop!"

"Did the abomination that slaughtered your kinsmen that brought Meredith to your alienage do that to your arm?"

Ceyrabeth said nothing, could say nothing except she felt the rage drain from her to be replaced by a fatigue that threatened to drive her to her knees.

"Beth," Kieran whispered, "Is it true? Is any of this true?"

Ceyrabeth's silence spoke volumes.

Sul gestured Pellinore forward, "Pellinore, step forward please, if you would." The elf frowned but complied as Sul placed a hand on his shoulder,

"This man is escaped from the tower in Starkhaven after conditions became intolerable. He attempted to liberate his fellow mages only to be cut down by the Templars and members of the Starkhaven nobility. He is the only survivor, having made it all the way to Ferelden with an arrow lodged in his leg. He is an elf and a free mage, we can all see that. But can we see that which is equally true; that he is, in fact, the bravest person assembled here? If he were human and Andrastian and his captors maleficarum or elves, he wouldn't be standing here now dubbed an apostate and an insurgent. He wouldn't in fact be able to stand at all, he would be so heavily laden with accolades and honors from the Orlesian Chantry. They'd write songs about him and sing them as hymns in the Orlesian Chantry. The most esteemed scribes of our age would fill their books with his tale to be told to our children and our children's children and so on down the ages because we would insist upon it. His name would be as familiar as King Maric, Emperor Drakon, or Justinia the First. "

Sul approached the roaring green bonfire his eyeless gaze fixed on Ceyrabeth, "Yet, if the Orlensian Chantry is right, if Otto Alrik and Divine Beatrix and Knight-Commander Meredith are right," He gestured at the elvish woman, "If indeed, Ser Ceyrabeth is right. What are we to do with that most famous of rebels- Andraste?"

He held up the amulet for all to see, Andraste's kindly expression glowing a faint green in the light of the alchemical fire, "What of her conceits in defying an empire? Her malcontent in giving Shartan and his elves a homeland? 'Let the blade pass through the flesh, Let my blood touch the ground, let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice.' What in Heaven's name shall we do this embarrassing truth?" He examined the amulet carefully, running his fingers of Andraste's serene visage.

"I see only one solution."

He tossed the amulet into the fire where it burst into flame and was consumed. The only sound that could be heard was the crackle of ivory and leather burning and from somewhere the soft sound of weeping.

"The other night, I was speaking to my friend, Reaper Maul, and we were discussing dwarven traditions he learned from during his time in their Proving Grounds and he explained to me that the Dwarves practice a form of ancestor worship. They believe that the most exemplary of their people both living and dead which they call 'Paragons' watch over them. These Paragons serve as ideals to be aspired to and in doing so they never really leave their people."

He took another drink and cleared his throat, "It made me curious as to who the 'Paragons' of the Andrastian faith were. Thane Maferath whose frailty ended Andraste's life, but whose bravery and resolve had also sustained her through her great crusade. Eailsay, Andraste's childhood friend who showed us that the Maker's Bride was first a little girl full of song and joy. Havard the Aegis, the first of Andraste's disciples who bore her ashes to the mountains in a final act of devotion and humility. Too long have we denied their wisdom, their insight, their example. Perhaps it is fear that the devotion that we hold so very dear to ourselves would be seen as flawed in their eyes. Perhaps in our fervor we fear that those ancient eyes would look upon our actions in their name and be ashamed. "

He smiled slightly, "But this is not so. There is a truth that I have aspired to, an ideal and it is simply this: We owe our devotion and our allegiance to the future and not the past. That which came before, no matter how sacredly it may be held, is not a guide to the future. Clinging to the past will not make us stronger; _learning_ from it will and when we have learned all we can from it, then it is to be put aside in a place of remembrance and not reverence. I call upon those ancient spirits to hear us. We desperately need your gentle wisdom and your counsel. Help us overcome our fears, our frailties, ourselves, so that we may finally grow as a people and learn to embrace the future and not the past. And if in doing so we anger the Orlesian chantry or the nobility or the Templars and war ensues, then let it come. And may it be finally the last crusade of Andraste."

Silence reigned in the camp as Sul turned away from the crowd and Atiya slowly lead him back to the tent. Long after those gathered had dispersed, only Ceyrabeth remained standing ramrod straight and staring at the last of the green fire as it sputtered and went out and all became serene and dark once more.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Sul had just finished pouring the wine when Atiya entered his tent, ducking her massive horned frame to clear the entryway.

"Aggregio Pavali," Sul explained quietly, "A friend of mine in Tevinter introduced me to it."

"I wasn't aware a man in your position could afford the luxury of friends," The Qunari replied flatly.

"We are not friends?"

"No, we are not and we never will be. Your actions made that impossible."

Sul took a measured sip from the goblet and nodded slowly, "Yes I suppose they did."

"It's time to clean your wounds."

Sul exhaled, "Past time, I imagine." He sat in his chair, hands folded in his lap. "Shall we begin?"

Silently, Atiya knelt before the man and removed a leather bundle from her waist. She unfurled it to reveal a bevy of gleaming metal instruments and tools. All manner of hooks, blades, and clamps gleamed dully in the soft light of the tent's vast interior, "I will require more light."

Sul gestured to a small brazier filled with seething coals that glowed angrily in the dark. Atiya moved to it and gripping it in her large hands heaved it up and deposited it next to Sul with an audible _thump_! "The solvent?"

"The locked cabinet."

Atiya moved to the large wooden cabinet made of wood so dark it was nearly black and engraved with a pair of dragons sinuously entwined. Their tails formed the large dark handles of the enormous piece of furniture and she lightly fingered the strange lock mounted into its twin doors: a series of concentric three disks engraved with symbols with a series of small holes.

"Your locks are becoming more elaborate," She commented placidly.

"The creeping onset of paranoia as my elder years descend upon me no doubt."

"Indeed. And the solution?"

Sul said nothing instead smiling slightly though if simultaneously amused and pained. Atiya shrugged and turned her attention back to the combination lock. She regarded the different symbols for a moment then arranged the different symbols meticulously before placing her fingertips into the holes and twisting hard. The lock snapped open, a variety of bolts retracting back into main body of the lock and the doors swung open silently. Inside was a dazzling array of vials and bottles of every shape and size imaginable from all corners of the world in a rainbow of different colors each filled with some strange liquid or powder. Mounted on the inside of the doors themselves were large racks that held every kind of tool and instrument one could conceive of.

"You remain clever," She commented tonelessly as she reached into the cabinet and removed several vials.

"We all have our gifts."

Atiya turned to face him, "Though not all of us keep them."

Once again, a pained but amused expression crossed the older man's face, "Point taken."

Atiya closed the massive wooden doors gently. Instantly the bolts snapped back into place and the lock was once again secure. She stood before the brazier, selected one of the vials and poured some into the smoldering coals. There was a flash of bright, blue light and a small jet of blue fire burst into existence before dying down almost immediately. The now-blue coals gave off considerably more light bathing the interior of the tent with an eerie ambiance that bordered on the unreal.

"The tools must be properly cleansed," Atiya carefully slid each tool from its leather loop or snare and gently placed one end it into the blue coals. Almost instantly, the metal began to smoke and a strange smell like ozone filled the air. She grabbed several bowls and buckets and placed them near Sul's feet. She then knelt before the older man seated in the chair and carefully prodded the soiled samite around his eyes: blood had soaked completely through the bandages forming a visage as black as pitch, "I will have to cut these off."

Sul nodded and waited patiently as Atiya reached into the azure brazier and removed a pair of scissors, its twin blades now glowing a faint blue. Carefully, she snipped at the soiled wrappings. Every time the blades came into contact with flesh, there was the faint _hiss _of flesh searing. Soon the scent of rotting meat filled the tent's confines. With a final cut, the bandages fell limp, held to Sul's face only by the encrusted blood.

"This will hurt," Atiya stated flatly.

"Yes."

The Qunari woman took a hold of one edge of the dangling material and began to peel it from Sul's face. Bits of flesh soon detached as the caked on blood formed a grisly adhesive. Soon red blood flowed followed by streams of black ichor as wet lumps of skin and fat fell into the network of bowls and buckets that had been set up, splattering like wax. Sul's hands tightened on the arms of the chair but remained still as strip after strip of tissue was peeled from his face in long gory lengths.

The last bandage was removed and tossed into the brazier, the collected blood and oils of Sul's skin bubbling and hissing angrily. Atiya dragged the fire closer to see more clearly and her eyes widened.

"For someone in your condition to look so, it must be grave indeed," Sul said quietly.

"Yes," Atiya murmured softly and took out fresh bandages to staunch some of the blood as she examined the damage. The flesh around his eyes and the immediate area was black and sickly with a pulpy appearance like rotten fruit. Necrotic tissue had swollen to form bloated cysts filled with black ichor. Veins pulsed and throbbed over the glistening skin and deep furrows of exposed muscle tissue, riddled with cancerous growths shuddered and trembled with each of Sul's inhalations. As Atiya peered closer at a particularly large mass just above Sul's left eye; it abruptly burst and black and yellow pus flowed down his face, thick and noxious.

"The infection has spread," Atiya announced after regaining her composure, "The tainted tissue will have be amputated and scoured clean," Atiya gently took the man's ravaged face, "You must control your emotions: your anger and pain only feeds the Taint."

"Noted," Sul replied calmly, "Proceed."

Atiya removed a small length of leather and inserted it into Sul's mouth, hit bit down and nodded his readiness. She removed a large scalpel from the flaming sconce and placed the tip of the blade just above the bridge of his nose. Taking a steadying breath, she pushed the blade into his face. Sul's teeth ground against the bit in his mouth and the wood of the chair creaked as Sul squeezed the armrests. Atiya sawed her way a millimeter at a time until she reached between his eyes. Flesh sizzled and popped as blood and ichor streamed from the incision as she cut around down the edge of one eye and then the other, forming an inverted "y". Taking a small fishhook, she pierced the flesh in three places and slowly peeled it back, pinning it open at three points. Retrieving several small clamps, she meticulously pinned several more pieces of corrupted tissue in place.

"Do you believe Elthina will cooperate?" Atiya asked and took the bit from his mouth.

Sul smiled despite himself at her attempts to distract him, "Unless she wishes her pet pupil's role in the massacre at the Starkhaven Tower known to all, she will submit," His smile turned scornful, "It's what people like her do best, after all."

"Will anyone actually believe that a high-ranking member of the Chantry would adopt a unilateral position of non-involvement in a time of great unrest?"

"I think you overestimate the Orlesian Chantry's sense of civil obligation. But to answer your question, Elthina will continue to do what we tell her to do. She ensured that Meredith was made knight-commander and she will ensure that she remains so to fan the flames of discord. At Elthina's core, she is fearful: afraid of what people will think of her actions and how those actions reflect on her and the Orlesian Chantry. Her carefully maintained visage of piety conceals a paralyzing fear embedded into the core of her being. I believe we can count on her to do exactly nothing exactly when we need her to do it."

"And First Enchanter Orsino?"

Sul's face grimaced, either from pain as Atiya continued to impale flaps of skin on hooks and pin them to his face or the onset of a sudden and violently intense loathing for the First Enchanter, "A weakling and a hypocrite. Just enough indignation to rile Meredith without enough conviction to actually _challenge _her. If he were half the champion of the oppressed he purports to be, he'd have galvanized the citizenry against the Templars ages ago, especially given how utterly ineffectual Dumar is," Sul scoffed and almost shook his head before Atiya tightened her grip on it, stopping the motion before it had even started, "Dumar and Elthina are the perfect people to reign over Kirkwall; completely obsessed with the opinions of others, desperate to curry favor with anyone who will support them and terrified of losing whatever perceived prestige and power they believe they possess."

"And the First Enchanter's relationship with the Necromancer?"

Sul gave a careful shrug so as not to disturb Atiya as she clamped down another piece of flesh and began to peel it back from the musculature, "Proof of Orsino's hypocrisy. The fact that he condones the madman just illustrates the fact that the elf lacks the courage of his convictions. Knowledge of his relationship with Quentin if brought to the Circle of Magi would be more than enough to ensure that he is stripped of his rank and put to the Brand."

"And yet…?"

"Quentin's depredations are more fuel to the fire that we have so carefully worked to nurture within Kirkwall," Sul explained, "Murderers rampaging through the streets at night cause the kind of fear and turmoil that will be necessary to ensure that our plans come to fruition in the Free Marches. As much as it would please me to see that miserable excuse for a mage reduced to a drooling moron, his weakness and cowardice continue to serve our goals."

"Innocent people are dying," Atiya replied.

"Innocent people will _always _die," Sul countered, "And a great deal more are _going _to die before this is all over," Sul shifted his weight, "Blood is the currency of change, Atiya, and the change we seek to manifest has a high price indeed," Sul gestured to his partially flayed face, pale skin skinned away to reveal darkened muscle tissue, "As you can see."

Atiya shrugged fractionally and removed a large, curved blade from the flames and forced the edge under the swollen masses. With a sharp twist of her wrist, the blade sprang open causing four metal spikes to burst forth. Sul screamed as Atiya wrenched the spikes as deep into the gory wound as possible and then pulled with all her might. The growth and the surrounding tissue was torn nearly completely free of Sul's face, dangling by only a thin thread of pitted skin which she severed with the scissors. She peered into the wound: blood bright and red gushed from it. She nodded her satisfaction and removed a brand from the brazier. Standing, she held down Sul with one hand and pressed the glowing brand into the open wound. His entire body shook as the pain robbed him of his ability to scream. After an agonizing several moments, Atiya removed the brand and examined her work and Sul nearly collapsed out of the chair, rendered completely limp from the pain. A monstrous scar had formed, angry and red, but clean. She reset the spiked tool, set it into the fire for a moment and regarding Sul.

"Shall we continue?"

Sul raised his head and nodded. Atiya removed the tool from the brazier and examined the next growth.

An hour later, the last of the diseased tissue had been removed. Sul was breathing shallowly, the upper portion of his face a mass of bright red scars and inflamed flesh with smoke trailing away from it in thin foul-smelling wisps. Carefully, Atiya made a small incision into each puckered scar and nodded in satisfaction as each bled bright red. She critically examined the small shards of glass that formed the latticework replacing the man's eyes, "The shards will also have to be removed and cleansed."

Sul simply nodded as Atiya removed a pair of small round speculum and affixed it into Sul's eye socket. She adjusted the instrument and examined the shards, "It is fortunate you do not possess eyelids, which makes this easier. Unfortunately, the muscles that would control your eyeball still react normally to external stimulation so the restraints are necessary."

"I do not require an explanation, _kadan_, merely your accommodation. Please proceed."

Carefully, she removed a long thin spike from the fire, half its length glowing blue and smoking faintly and began examining the shards.

"I assume you remember the correct sequence?" Sul asked mildly.

"Certainly," Atiya reassured him and then she pressed the tip of the needle just under Sul's eye socket and angling it up at a 45 degree angle, slid the length of heated metal under the bone and began burrowing upward. Sul gasped at the agony and heat. The needle met resistance briefly as it came into contact with bone. Atiya twisted the spike and applied more pressure. There was the soft _crunch _of bone and Sul jerked once before the instrument finished its trip through the man's face, its tip now lodged behind his eye.

"How does it feel?" Atiya asked.

Sul swallowed an angry retort, "It's excruciating," He informed her in a calm but strained voice, "Which means it is firmly lodged in the nerve cluster and not the brain itself. It will prevent any shards from tumbling backwards into my skull. You may proceed with extraction."

"Yes, sir," Removing a small chisel and mallet from the blue flame, she gently tapped experimentally against each shard of iridescent glass in Sul's eye socket. She felt one small piece near the center of where Sul's pupil would be had he possessed eyes shift slightly causing her to nod once. Inserting the very corner of the chisel adjacent to the shard, she tapped it lightly with the mallet: once, twice, thrice and the shard fell free from its mounting. "Tilt your head forward," She instructed as she removed a small bowl made of obsidian and possessing several small grooves along the smooth concave surface of its interior. There was a faint sound as a piece of glass, no bigger than a thumbnail fell from Sul's face and landed in the bowl trailing a thick strand of viscous black ichor behind it, "Keep your head forward and let it drain."

Sul gave a slight nod of his head to indicate he heard the instruction as Atiya brought the obsidian bowl to the brazier. Carefully removing a pair of tongs, she collected a single coal from the burning fire and placed it within the bowl. There was an angry _hiss _as bits of tainted blood and tissue boiled away. When it was over, she took a small pair of tweezers and with exacting care, arranged the shard into a small groove perfectly shaped to accommodate it.

"One down," Sul murmured softly, "Twenty-Nine to go."

After several hours, the deed was done. Atiya dabbed at an errand drop of black ichor near the corner of Sul's eye socket and dropped the rag into one of the buckets on the floor, now filled to the brim with a noxious tarlike substance: the extract that had been drained from Sul's face and eyes.

Sul's empty eye sockets looked cavernous in the blue light of the brazier. Atiya carefully maneuvered the last tiny shard into its allocated groove in the bowl. Every piece was accounted for.

"Now to purify," Atiya commented tonelessly. Sul managed a wry smile.

"I'm familiar with the process thank you."

Atiya gently placed the bowl into the roaring azure flames. Soon the bowl begin to take on an eerie glow and the scent of ozone intensified.

There was a sharp rapping sound just outside the tent.

"Enter," Sul instructed calmly.

"My apologies Captain," Pellinore began as he ducked into the tent, "But we've received—"Sul turned his eyeless face towards the elf and the other man froze in his tracks, "_Et I' Fen' harel!" _He managed to choke out.

"You were saying?" Sul asked mildly unable to keep a bemused expression from his lined face.

"I…..I….—"

"You….?"

"What….has happened?"

"A long and difficult story for another time," Sul answered before gesturing to chair, "Please, sit lieutenant. Mind the buckets, they contain a substance that would best be avoided by the living."

Pellinore could not repress a frown as he peered into Sul's empty eye sockets, "Can you…see me?"

"Not as you understand it, but I can sense you: I can hear the fabric of your cloth and feel the air shift and change as you move through the space of tent."

A stray thought clicked in Pellinore's mind, "Is that not similar to what Arcuse practices?"

Sul shook his head, "Arcuse's senses are far sharper than my own. It's what makes her such a formidable duelist. Now, you had a report?"

Pellinore regained his composure and straightened in the chair, "Yes Captain, there's a man—"

The elf was shouldered out of the way by a short man in garbed in armor and great helm.

"—here to see you."

Sul moved his face to focus his attention on the new man, "It's all right Lieutenant, I've been expecting him. Dismissed."

The lieutenant sent the short human a withering look. He then stiffly bowed and departed.

"What happened to your eyes?" The short man asked.

"I misplaced them," Sul replied, "Bazeley."

"In the flesh."

"We are far from Amaranthine."

"Yeah? Last I heard you'd shacked up with the ox-men. Hadn't heard the Legion had returned."

"You weren't meant to. It was not your business."

"Information _is_ my business."

"Perhaps you should consider a change in profession."

Bazeley smiled bitterly and cast a look about the tent, "Nice place you have here."

"Are you here for a reason Bazeley?"

Bazeley clicked his tongue in thought then nodded, "Yeah, well, you mentioned a change in profession?"

"You've not the discipline for an assassin of any merit, nor the fortitude to be a mercenary. You lack both the connections to deal with lyrium or slaves, and you lack the knowledge to be an effective purveyor of the occult. You've become a bounty hunter," The eyeless man stated matter-of-factly.

"For a bloke with no eyes, you see too damn much," Bazeley commented sourly.

"We all have our burdens to bear," Bazeley reached for the bottle of wine on the table, "Do not touch that!" The man froze as Sul's tone cracked like a whip, "It's for a guest that will be joining me later."

The bounty hunter gave the eyeless man a shaky smile, "Right. Sorry then."

Sul gestured, "Atiya, please bring our guest something to drink," The Qunari woman bowed once and headed out. Bazeley gestured at the departing woman with a dirty thumbnail,

"Still got that pet—?"

"You do not want to finish that sentence."

Bazeley shrugged as Atiya returned with a single goblet of mead placing it before the man and departing without a word.

"The last time I saw you," Sul commented softly, "You were fending off Ser Tammerly and six of his bannermen on the Pilgrim's Path."

"Yeah, nice of you to help out."

"We were _business _competitors," Sul replied coolly, "You gambled that you were more cunning than I. You were wrong."

"'If you cannot afford to lose-," Bazeley tiredly recited from memory.

"—you should not play the game'," The older man finished.

"Someone told me that once when I was a lad."

"You should have listened."

"How the in name of Andraste's flaming arse was I supposed to know that you'd contracted the Howlers ahead of me?"

"Anyone hoping to conduct business on the Pilgram's Path should be well appraised as to what the local drake runners are doing. The Corsairs were taken by fever last winter. That left the White Howlers.

"And you, what, paid them to attack my caravan?"

"On the contrary, I paid them to _avoid _your caravan."

Bazeley frowned, "I don't get it."

"It's very simple, Bazeley. Someone had already paid the Howlers to attack your caravan. When I disrupted that plan, I wanted to see if the person responsible for orchestrating their attacks over the last few months would come personally."

The other man frowned for a bit then his eyes went wide, "The Ox!"

Sul inclined his head slightly.

"You used me as _bait?!_"

"You sound surprised."

"I had nine bolts of the finest silk heading to Mervis! It cost me a fortune!"

"I had heard rumors that the silk trade was brisk in Amaranthine," Sul mused, "Most likely due to Celene's atrocioius fashion statement at her fete last Summerfest in Halamshiral. Ferelden nobility for all their declarations of patriotism always seem eager to parrot the fashions of the west, no matter how gauche," Sul shook his head reprovingly, "Slippers bejeweled with emeralds and pearls indeed."

Bazeley said nothing, glaring at the eyeless man over the rim of his wine goblet as he sipped, "Still don't know why it had to be _my _goods that you baited the Ox with."

"Because I had hoped that you and yours would have been up to the task of slaying the wretch."

The bounty hunter peered into his wine as if attempting to scry the answer from its crimson depths, "We weren't prepared to fight mounted knights. I was the only one to escape. The rest of my boys were run down."

"And that is why you lost your goods and why Ser Tammerly eluded the death I had so dearly wished for him."

"What'd the Ox do to get on your bad side?" Bazeley asked questioningly.

"The man is a pig, he deserves to be someone's bacon," Sul replied.

"Ser Tamra would agree with you on that one."

"Yes," Sul said softly, his brow furrowing.

"What?"

"Ser Tamra is sly and resourceful, but if she attracts the wrong kind of attention—"

"Like the Ox?" Bazeley interjected.

"Like the Ox," Sul admitted, "She could place herself in imminent peril."

"Want me to keep an eye out? I don't think you have any to spare," Bazeley grinned.

"Had your swordsmanship matched your glibness, we would not be discussing this particular matter."

"….okay, fair point."

"But no, I have agents in Amaranthine and Vigil's Keep. I should be able to keep Tamra out of harm's way and arrange a suitable decoy should those efforts fail."

"What's your interest in her anyways?"

Sul shrugged fractionally, "She's clever and moral. That's enough to garner my interest, especially when it occurs within the ranks of the Ferelden nobility. Speaking of which," Sul commented smoothly, "I understand you're continuing to make life difficult for Rendon Howe."

Bazeley spat, "That rat bastard needs a good being killed."

"Difficult now that he has the support of Teryn Loghain, the new power behind the throne."

Bazeley's mouth dropped open and Sul smiled tightly, "You didn't know?"

"That explains why the little shit's fortunes have been improved. Did you hear he'd been made teyrn of Highever?"

"I had. Are you aware of _how _he became thus?"

"No."

"He massacred every last soul at Castle Cousland…with Loghain's assistance in the form of at least two companies of his own, handpicked from his own reserves and wearing Howe's colors."

Bazeley blinked rapidly for a few moments processing this, "Maker's balls."

"Whether or not that actually happened or no is what I wish for you to learn."

Bazeley narrowed his eyes suspiciously his wariness allowing him to overcome the discomfort of the sight of the two gaping eye sockets staring back at him, "What are you on about?"

"Rendon Howe is a craven but he's not completely without intelligence. He may have acquired some form of leverage to be used against his current master in the event their relationship sours."

"And what would that leverage be exactly?"

Sul smiled faintly, "I have a suspicion."

"So what's the job?"

Sul stood and walked across the dimly lit tent with a confidence that belied his blindness and took the other man by surprise, "When I was in Minrathous, an acquaintance of mine informed me that there'd been an arrangement made between elements in Tevinter and here in Ferelden."

"What's Tevinter doing here?" Bazeley asked, taking a long drink from the wine goblet.

"Negotiating an arrangement with Loghain to reintroduce slavery."

The other man spewed a mouthful of wine out of his mouth and proceeded to cough and choke, "He…_what?!_"

"There's a magister with a pet slaver who cut a deal with Loghain's people. "

"How do you _know _these things?" He asked, aghast.

"I intercepted one of his agents and persuaded her to divulge the information."

Bazeley shook his head to clear it of visions involving Sul's methods of 'persuasion'.

"Calm yourself," Sul reassured Bazeley, "There was no need to resort to coercion. Once I supplied her with enough funds to facilitate her departure from the country, she spoke freely."

"Speaking of funds..."

Sul tossed a small pouch to the other man who caught it in his free hand, "30 gold sovereigns. Find the slaver; an elf named Devera and her magister master."

"Where do I start looking? Amaranthine?"

"No, information like this would be disastrous for the Teryn if it fell into the wrong hands."

"I'd say it already has," He gestured at the eyeless man with his wine goblet.

"I can't afford to confront Loghain openly. My resources are plentiful and growing, but not enough to challenge the throne."

"What about your allies amongst the nobility?"

"Loghain and Howe will need to establish the logistics of funneling slaves from Ferelden back to Tevinter. It'll require trial and error. So they'll take people no one will miss at first until they've established a reliable conduit."

"Meaning….?"

"Elves, Bazeley, they'll start with elves and move on to more lucrative slaves once they have their route established."

"That means raiding the alienages."

Sul nodded thoughtfully, "There was recently an uprising in the Denerim alienage."

The other man scoffed, "Apparently the elves didn't appreciate being used as sport for the bored children of the nobility."

"Apparently so," Sul conceded, "It wouldn't surprise me if additional armed men are sent to 'reestablish order and ensure public safety'."

"Slavers?"

"Almost certainly," Sul pursed his lips in thought and then beckoned, "Come," He turned and briskly exited the tent, his stride confident despite his blindness.

"The blind leading the…..," Bazeley thought about for a moment then shook his head not wanting to dwell on the matter further as he followed the older man out.

"Light," Sul said softly as he entered the command tent. Instantly, two guards lit torches and placed them inside the sconces within the enormous confines of the tent. Sul paid them little heed as he strode to the massive oaken table

Bazeley eyed the enormous fixture appraisingly, "Where'd you get this great thing?"

"Tribute from Xenon the Antiquarian," Sul murmured quietly as slowly ran his fingers over the contoured surface area of the map, frowning in concentration, "A token of his esteem."

"Who's that?"

"Less of a 'who' and more of a 'what', actually. He runs the Black Emporium; something of an exclusive curio shop in the Free Marches. He specializes in rare and exotic antiquities."

"And he sent you this…?"

"Likely to earn my favor."

"Did it work?"

"For the moment," Sul conceded, "He tells me his agents found it in the ruin of an ancient elven fortress up in the Frostback mountains west of here along the border of Orlais. "

"How in the Void did he get a giant table down a bleedin' mountain?"

"Thaddeus."

"_Who?!_"

Sul waved him off and tapped a spot on the map, "Here. From Denerim along the North Road…," He traced his finger along the road, "….to the Port of HIghever, newly acquired by Rendon Howe."

"If Loghain and Howe are in league-."

"They are."

"—then whole plan with slaves was a long time in the making. Clever."

"If you say so," Sul replied, his brow furrowed in concentration, the expression looking bizarre with the vacant eye sockets.

"Where's he going to send them?"

Sul sighed and tapped the map thoughtfully, "You can't sail to Tevinter from Ferelden with a hold full of slaves, not without half of them starving to death."

"It is a high-risk cargo. That's why—"

"They are not _cargo _Bazeley," A dark shadow settled across Sul's face as he straightened and turned his face towards the other man "They are living people, are clear on that?" His tone was lethal soft.

Bazeley swallowed around a suddenly dry throat as he peered into the cavernous depths of where Sul's eyes should have been, "Yes, sir."

Sul held the look a moment longer and then turned his attention elsewhere, "I shall have to think more on it. In the meantime return to Amaranthine and keep me appraised of Howe's movements and those of his agents."

"Hey, I'm not part of your damn legion," Bazeley protested.

"Thirty gold sovereigns says otherwise," Bazeley shut his mouth with an audible_ clack_ and throw back the last of his wine, scowling, "Besides you should get out of bounty hunter profession."

"Oh yeah, why's that?"

"Larkin's alive."

The goblet hit the floor and rolled away.

…..what….?" Bazeley managed to choke out.

"Larkin is alive."

"But…..but the dragon….and the volcano….and the firestorm…"

"Was apparently insufficient."

"Sweet Maker," Bazeley stammered wiping a shaky hand across his damp brow.

"I think perhaps you should try your hand at becoming an information broker and not becoming business competitors with a creature like Larkin."

"Yeah, yeah, I think so, yeah."

"You'll need a new _nom de guerre_."

Bazeley looked at the man with the expression of a man who'd been stabbed in the gut, "A what?"

"An Orlesian term," Sul explained patiently, "It means 'alias'."

"Oh," The sweating man looked around the interior of the tent and at the row of banners mounted on the far wall and their heraldic markings, "How about that?" He asked pointing to one depicting a pair of black wolves against a yellow and green background.

"I would advise against masquerading as a member of the de Chalon family," Sul stated mildly, "Gaspard is not a man known for his temperance."

"Well, how about just 'Black Wolf'?"

Sul pursed his lips and shook his head, "Black Wolf is the name of a male prostitute in Llomerryn."

"How do you _know_ these things?"

"Information is my weapon," Sul offered as an explanation, "'Dark Wolf'."

Bazeley considered and then nodded, "'Dark Wolf'. I like it."

"Good. You have your instructions."

The newly-christened Dark Wolf nodded and moved to the exit.

"Ummm, what should I do if I meet up with Larkin?"

"Swallow your own tongue," Sul stated unhesitatingly, "Because it will be far kinder than anything that lunatic has in mind if he decides to make you his new toy."

Dark Wolf gingerly rubbed his throat and then nodded once before hurrying out.

A few moments later, Sul exited the tent as Pellinore approached him, "Sir, we are ready to begin the process of breaking camp-."

A shrill horn cut off the rest of the Lieutenant's words as Sul turned his eyeless face towards the darkness in the distance from whence it sounded.

Sul nodded, "Very good lieutenant. The Horde is on the move," He said softly, "Lothering will fall by mid-morning," He turned his face towards the elf, "Begin the evacuation. When the spawn tire of slaughtering villagers, I don't want them turning their attentions to us."

Lieutenant Pellinore saluted smartly, wincing only a little at the sight of Sul's empty eye sockets, "Yes sir!"

"Dismissed lieutenant."

Sul listened to the crunch of the lieutenants departing footsteps upon the earth and inhaled deeply, setting his shoulders in a determined set. It was time to return to Atiya.

With a last lingering inhalation of cold night air, Sul headed back to his tent.

The next morning dawned cold and shadowed as Pellinore led Beth across the camp to a small, open air stall. She could hear the singing before they even got near, the voice of a very young man- clear and sweet and trumpeting a VERY bawdy Orlesian drinking song. A short, fat figure was hopping from one foot to the other in time to the music around a chair that appeared to be on wheels. "Don't worry. Bayard's harmless even if he is a little…strange." Pellinore felt compelled to reassure her.

"You don't have to warn me of 'strange' in this place, Lieutenant Pellinore."

"You've not seen us at our best," Pellinore caught himself and laughed. "Although, maybe the Captain would say that because you've seen our uniqueness, you _have_ seen our best."

"Yes," Ceyrabeth replied frostily, "His calling dark magic to reshape my ears against my will felt very unique indeed."

It was good that it was a short walk to Bayard's stall because it was a very silent one after that. Pellinore hailed Bayard, who immediately stopped and theatrically whirled around. The little man, with many elaborate bows, gushed his joy to see Lieutenant Pellinore again and to finally meet the young lady that caused such a stir about camp, "Why, it is almost as good as being back at court!" He assured her with a wide grin.

Almost without knowing how it happened, Beth found herself seated in the wheeled chair and Bayard was examining her hair with exclamations of delight. "Such shine! Such heft! Why, half this glorious mass alone would bring a king's ransom in the Summer Market of Val Royeaux!"

"You sell…hair…in Val Royeaux?" Pellinore asked with mild disgust.

"But of course, Messere! You do not think we magic our beautiful wigs from nothing, do you?" "

"Well, it has to go. Captain's orders. It's up to Ser Ceyrabeth what's done with it after that."

"It's all yours." Beth waved the consideration away. Bayard's face lit like a lamp.

"You are a paragon and a saint, mamselle, to warm a man's heart as you do with your golden words and generosity. But, ah! I have thought of a small thing," The man's fingers rapidly braided a thin strand about the width of Beth's finger. He tied it off at the end then snip! And he handed the length to Beth. "A souvenir. Now….here we go!" With a slice of the Orlesian's shears, a waterfall of ruddy gold fell to the floor. It didn't take long before Beth was completely shorn, the back of her head a mass of artful spikes and the front just brushing her jaw. "Voila! You are a work of art in any civilized capitol in Thedas, mamselle."

Beth glanced in the mirror he held out to her to be polite, but stopped cold when she saw the face looking back at her. The face of an elf. A face she had never seen before. She touched trembling fingers to her reflection and thought how utterly strange it was that she would not recognize herself.

_Oh Maker, save me._

She had to focus on something else and as she saw Pellinore seated at the small table behind her busily scribbling away, an idea formed in her head. "May I?"

Pellinore glanced at her, surprised to hear her voice was calm, even pleasant. "By all means." He handed her a featherless quill and piece of parchment. Ceyrabeth tipped the quill in his direction, eyebrow raised. "It's self-inking. A new Dwarven design. The Captain like to make sure we have the best."

"Speaking of the captain," Ceyrabeth scribbled a brief note on the parchment and folded it. "Could you make sure he gets this? I'd do it myself, but frankly if I never saw him again it would be too soon."

"Yes yes, you go, Lieutenant and I will escort the young lady safely home." Bayard stepped between them with another flourishing bow and offered his arm to Ceyrabeth. She took it, though the difference in their heights almost made her have to bend to do so, and the last Pellinore saw of them they were heading toward the Templars' tents with Bayard talking a mile a minute. He turned away toward where he knew the Captain was housed and though he was loathe to disturb him, he knew he would want to know that his orders had been followed.

Atiya answered his gentle knock on the outside post of the tent, thanked him for the information and took the note from him. She ducked back inside and relayed the information to Sul. "Pellinore says she took it with good grace. Bayard was unmolested in any way."

"Unsurprising. She is of a disciplined nature," Sul commented non-committedly.

"Yes, and right now she has turned that disciplined nature against you."

"Ser Ceyrabeth will be tended to in time, but your concern is noted Atiya and appreciated." He indicated the note. "That is mine, I imagine."

"Yes, from Ser Ceyrabeth. I can dispose of it if you'd prefer." Atiya offered.

"Your vigilance is commendable…." Sul teased her lightly. "…but unnecessary in this instance. I have never shied away from unpleasant words." In reply, she handed the packet to him. It took just a fold or two to open; a long braid glimmered red-gold in the candlelight as it coiled around two simple words: Trials 1:1. Here, in his sanctuary, Sul permitted himself a mirthless chuckle.

"Clever."

Atiya picked up the paper and examined the slanting writing. "Trials 1:1?"

"I believe the line that is meant to be significant in this case is 'I will not fear the Legion, though they set themselves against me."

"Ah." Atiya nodded understanding. "It seems Ser Ceyrabeth likes to have the last word."

"She is welcome to it," Sul replied tossing the letter into the brazier, "The last word and the _final_ word are not always one in the same."

"As you say, sir."

Ceyrabeth turned and stretched, feeling a curious lack of tension in her muscles. The wind blew soft and warm against her bare skin, scented with salt from the sea and rosemary from the Tranquil's kitchen garden. "Beth," Ceyrabeth turned toward the husky voice with a smile. Meredith stood by the open window, blonde hair tossed by the fragrant breeze, not a stitch on her strong, fair form (a fact for which she was devoutly grateful). Beth propped herself up on her pillows and beckoned languorously with one finger. Meredith came to her with a smile, willowy limbs swaying seductively…long fingers reached lovingly for Ceryabeth's face…

Meredith's head split open like an overripe melon transmogrifying into a huge ravenous maw and a horrid chittering sound filled the air. Beth realized belatedly that it was not her lover reaching for her, it was the creature Chirak. It was far too late to run, but Beth fought anyway, ripping off tentacles, gouging the thing's eyes….

And she fell out of bed, flailing, for the fifth time in a week. She lay on the ground, thanking the Maker that it was a short drop, before pushing herself into a sitting position. She ran her fingers through her hair, grimacing when it met no resistance. She kept forgetting that her one beauty had been taken from her when Captain Sul decided that she looked better as a pointy-eared boy, damn him a thousand times.

But maybe, just maybe, tonight she could take his maddening arrogance and slam it down his throat. She dressed quickly, quietly slipping out of her tent and took the roundabout way to where Ser Quinlan and the others were staying. Quietly she whistled a three note run that sounded exactly like the call of a nightingale, waited ten seconds then repeated it. Quinlan appeared immediately.

"Ceyrabeth?" He had dropped his voice to almost silence. Beth felt a pang at the wariness in his face, but she didn't give him a chance to talk.

"Wake men, quietly. Out." She kept her sentences to as few words as possible, avoiding any sibilant sounds that would make her voice carry. Quinlan immediately imitated her.

"Gear?"

Beth shook her head, "Only carry." She indicated the pack on her back. She had carefully absconded with as much food and water skins as she could the night before, and most importantly had added the last of her lyrium vials. She had enough for each man for maybe two days if they ate little and foraged- not quite enough to get them to civilization but enough to get them out of the Legion's range if they moved quickly enough.

Ex-Templar though she was, she puffed up with pride at how fast the men dressed and gathered. She had also lifted a map of the area from Lieutenant Pellinore- he had been kind enough to give her the history of the Legion when she asked; he had also been kind enough to get her a cup of water when the 'smoke of the brazier' had given her a severe coughing fit. She had felt remorse for her duplicity...until the next time she looked in a mirror. Somewhere between the hair, the ears, and the new burn scar curving along the base of her throat from Osen's attack, her resolve hardened.

It was almost mid-morning when they reached the outskirts of the camp. Tregan stopped in his tracks.

"Tre…"

The young man shook his head, ears tilted to something none of them had caught. They all halted without question. Tregan had been a scout in the employ of the Empress before joining the Templars. Beth watched him listen for a second, saw his expression harden, and she let out a sigh.

"What gave me away?"

"The map." Atiya said calmly as she and Sul materialized silently from the tree line on the left. "Information is our most precious resource, Ser Ceyrabeth, and as such is monitored carefully."

"I'll remember that for next time." She replied lightly, even though her hand clenched hard over her sword hilt. For just a moment she considered killing them both- Osen was nowhere in sight, and there didn't appear to be any other guards. She didn't know much about Atiya, so she put her odds at fifty fifty for actually striking a killing blow.

Knowing Sul though, Atiya was probably some kind of secret automaton that could stretch her arms an obscene distance and was likely powered by elf blood from living bodies. Worse, if Beth failed, her men would likely die in horrible ways…

Not that that wasn't a possibility now.

"So," Beth said, injecting a bit of bravado into her voice. "What now Captain? Are we all to be thrown naked in a pit with rabid Brontos and no weapons?"

"Stop giving him ideas!" Mathias whispered frantically.

A fractional smile, coolly cordial, flashed across Sul's visage as fleeting as ripples in a still pond. "That won't be necessary," He assured them quietly, "But you should know that you're going the wrong way."

"That's absurd!"

"Then you are familiar with the Korcari Wilds?"

"Of course!"

"Have you heard of Barrows of Velcorminth then?"

Tregan's demeanor took a defiant cast, "They are the final resting place of the Chasind war leader Velcorminth who led the tribes against the darkspawn during the Second Blight."

"Very good," The blind man said approvingly, "Do you know where they are?"

"They are several leagues north of us," Tregan replied with the utmost confidence.

Sul turned his face to the side, "Atiya?"

Atiya scanned the horizon and then pointed into the distance, "There."

The others turned to look at Tregan. His face fell.

"Those are _not_ several leagues away," Mathias whispered sourly.

Tregan sighed and turned to face Sul, who had the good taste to not appear to be gloating, "I take your point Captain."

"I have mounts ready for you," Sul gestured at someone unseen from behind him and continued to speak, "Head north along the Imperial Highway until you reach the West Road. You will encounter refugees fleeing from Lothering in an attempt to avoid the Darkspawn horde. I would ask that you aid them in this."

"And why would you care about the well-being of refugees?" Ceyrabeth spat venomously, her eyes flashing.

Sul shrugged slightly, "Their deaths serve no purpose and I have no interest in seeing them added to the ranks of the Darkspawn."

Ceyrabeth's eyes narrowed, "The ranks of the Darkspawn? What do you mean by that?" She asked suspiciously.

"A story for another time. You must hurry however."

A squat man with surprisingly aristocratic features led several horses out from behind the trees behind Sul. They were clad in heavy barding from face to hooves, yet moved surprisingly lightly.

"Eregost!" Quinlan cried out, overjoyed as he recognized his mount's familiar coloration on the small patch of hide that showed between the gaps in the armor, "I thought I'd lost you in that damn bog," He reached up and under the armor to stroke the mare's nose, then frowned: the horse showed no signs of recognizing him or even acknowledging his presence, "What's wrong gir-?"

A thunderous roar tore through the relative quiet of the swamp as a huge purple dragon flew over their heads, the flapping of its enormous wings sounded like thunderclaps. It threw back its head and roared so loud that the trees shook.

"That's a high dragon!" Mathias cried out as he and the other Templars dove behind cover, hands on their weapons. The squat man cried out and dropped the reins as he cowered from the beast.

Sul and Atiya by contrast did not appear startled in the least. Sul lifted his face to the sky and smiled, "Good, she got my message."

Ceyrabeth had also stood her ground as she peered intently at the horses: they had remained stock still during the entire encounter and even now, completely unrestrained, remained eerily calm. Carefully she approached one of the horses.

"Ceyrabeth, what are you doing?" Mathias asked as he tried to clear the ringing from his ears.

Ignoring the other man, Ceyrabeth reached up to the straps holding Eregost's champron to its face. The scent of cinnamon and pitch overwhelmed her suddenly and she coughed, turning her face away.

"Eregost…..?" Quinlan whispered, his face going pale as snow.

Ceyrabeth registered the scent of death a moment before she turned to face the creature.

"Maker!" She gasped, dropping the horse's helm to the ground. Eregost's flesh had been almost completely stripped from its head. That which remained was bloated and putrescent. Large bandages had been applied over various portions of the creature's face and body which only added to its ghastly appearance. Green pinpoints of light glowed profanely from deep in its eye sockets.

"May I introduce Casper Pentaghast the Third," Sul offered by way of explanation, motioning to the squat man. "An extremely talented Mortalitasi of Nevarra."

"What have you done?!" Ceyrabeth demanded furiously.

"You are running out of time," Sul countered, "No normal mounts could get you to the refugees in time to save any of them. These mounts require neither food nor rest. They will gallop tirelessly for as long as is required."

"They are abominations!"

Sul shook his head and gestured to the Qunari woman beside him. Placidly she handed him an apple.

"Eregost!" Sul called out and he lobbed at apple towards to reanimated creature. Eregost leapt forward, nimbly caught the apple, and began chewing on it.

"No demon inhabits these creatures. Each has retained a portion of its original self."

"That's not—"

"It's time to ask yourself what you believe," Sul hissed contemptuously, "What is more important to you: your lying, timid morality or making it to those refugees before they are butchered to the last child?"

Ceyrabeth swallowed an angry retort, digging her fingernails into the palm of her hand to hard that it drew blood, "I hate you."

Sul nodded, "You have that right," His tone went cold as he approached the elf, "But you _will _obey me if you intend to serve within the Phoenix Legion or I will have you executed. Are we clear?"

If Ceyrabeth could have drawn her sword and cut his head off right then and there, she would have done so with a song in her heart. Instead she carefully knelt before Sul, "What is thy bidding," She glared daggers up at him, "My Captain?"

"You evil bastard!"

Ceyrabeth was bowled over as Quinlan charged Sul, his fists raised, "Quin no!" She tried to call out.

Sul waited calmly as Atiya stepped away from him. When the enraged knight was almost upon him, the Captain pivoted on the balls of his feet and slapped a hard palm against the back of the man's head as he charged past. The extra momentum of the strike was enough to off-balance the screaming knight. He overstepped and tumbled forward in a heap of rage and metal, plowing through a thick bed of reeds and landed in a large pool of bog water, sinking quickly up to his waist.

Ceyrabeth clamored to her feet as Sul calmly turned to regard the rapidly sinking knight, "Quin! I've got you!" Shooting Sul a murderous look she raced to the edge of the pool and stretched out her arm, "Take my hand!"

"I can't-," The rest of Quinlan's words were lost as he swallowed a mouthful of water. Meanwhile Sul was regarding the whole display with faint amusement.

"Drachaen," Something Atiya's tone caused him to face her. She pointed at the pool and Sul turned to look: something that resembled an oil slick was noiselessly gliding over the surface of the water towards Ser Quinlan's flailing.

"Quinlan. Get out of the water. _Now!_"

Sul's voice betrayed a hint of urgency that made Ceyrabeth's blood run cold. She had never seen him display the slightest hint of anxiety in her presence, much less the urgency that now filled his tone. She looked past Quinlan and frowned at the oily thing, "What _is_ that?"

"Ceyrabeth, get him out of there," His tone was still carefully modulated but the undertone of urgency was rapidly becoming dominant. Without a moment's hesitation, Ceyrabeth removed her dagger and with a few quick cuts, slashed the straps holding her armor in place. She clenched the dagger between her teeth and dove into the water towards Quinlan. The oil slick had gathered speed and was writhing back and forth slowly becoming more substantial as it drew closer to the pair of them.

_Focus _Ceyrabeth grit her teeth driving the image of the oily writhing darkness from her mind and directing all her attention to saving her friend. She reached the man and began sawing at the straps to his armor while keeping his head above water and half-swimming, half-wading towards the shore away from the slithering menace.

"We're not going to make it!" Quinlan cried, "Leave me!"

"Never!" Ceyrabeth dragged the man closer to the muddy earth that marked the edge of the pool. They were so _close…._

The oil slick reared back up like a serpent and hissed at them, opening something that resembled a wide mouth. Bits of slime and detritus drippled from it.

_We're not going to make it. Maker…._

There was a blur of movement a loud _splash. S_uddenly, Sul was in the water between them and the malevolent entity in the water. He brandished a large red crystal towards the gelatinous creature,

_"Ínvoco nomine Neriah ille qui stabat coram urente_!" The red crystal flashed with light and Ceyrabeth suddenly felt lightheaded and strangely overheated. A pulsing sensation went through her body that set her teeth on edge, "_Voluntas non valebit Vyrantus te!"_

The crystal flashed red and the creature shrieked with a sound like a thousand claws across stone as it began to flow rapidly away from the red light.

"_Ínvoco nomine Corin qui prohibuit rubiginem!"_ Sul advanced relentlessly upon the shrieking entity. The water in the pool had begun to bubble and foam as if it were boiling away. Ceyrabeth hoisted Quinlan out of the water into the waiting arms of the others and turned to watch Sul, _"Voluntas non valebit Krayvan te!"_

The creature shrieked long and loud and rose up out of the water and split into several different writhing pieces that hissed and snarled. It loomed high above the pool.

"Maker preserve me," Ceyrabeth whispered in dread at the sheer size of the creature towering over them.

And with a chittering roar that nearly rivaled that of the dragon and froze the elven girl's blood in her veins, a writhing mass of flesh and claws burst from the trees.

"_You shall not have him!"_ Chirak shrieked in a chorus of gibbering voices that sounded from all over its' contorting body. Ceyrabeth was shocked to her very core to see her former lieutenant's head dangling from a stray portion of tissue, his eyes were wide open and from his mouth emitted a wailing, gurgling sound.

Tentacles burst from Chirak's rapidly shifting form and wrapped around the oily creature, pulling it close. Arms and legs and other limbs that couldn't be identified exploded from Chirak's writhing flesh to propel it forward, colliding into the viscous creature in the pool of water. Sul dove out of the way as gibbering flesh and oily putridness tore and clawed at each other. Mouths and horns tore their way free from Chirak to bite and stab at the thing. The knight-lieutenant's head began wail louder as the flesh bubbled and then split apart, bone and blood spraying the ground as the bisected face became another set of jaws that sank deeply into the other creature.

Ceyrabeth began to feel faint at the sight and was hauled out of the water by Quinlan who quickly turned away to become violently ill. Mathias was hyperventilating and averting his eyes, hiding from the sight, and Tregan simply stared at the two monstrosities tearing each other apart.

Chirak wrapped itself around the creature, bones stretching and then breaking before being reabsorbed into its body. Flesh melted and flowed like wax, tearing and then reforming as it coiled around the oily entity which continued to thrash and screech. Chirak coiled itself around the other thing and constricted, its prey thrashing within the confines of its prison of flesh and tissue to no avail. Chirak squeezed and squeezed, the sound of flesh bursting as jagged pieces of bone erupted from the seething cauldron of tissue filled the air. And over all of that the hissing of the dark entity and the chittering guttural roaring of Chirak, deafening in its intensity.

With a final wail, both creatures disappeared beneath the surface of the water and silence descended upon the scene like a pall.

Ceyrabeth didn't even have time to steady her shaking hands before she noticed a strange sight- Sul was half-draped over a log, making no effort to pull himself back to shore. And even stranger- neither Atiya nor the Mortalitasi were making any move to help him. Beth could clearly see the red bloom of his blood spreading rapidly over the water. He was going to be in serious trouble if he didn't get out of there soon. Ceyrabeth was just opening her mouth to comment when Sul lost his grip on the log and soundlessly slid under the water. Beth waited for Atiya or Pentaghast to make a move, but neither did- Casper just shifted from foot to foot, wringing his hands, and Atiya stood there placid as a pastured druffalo.

"He'll drown!" She finally expostulated. Atiya nodded.

"Yes."

"Let him, and good riddance." Quinlan muttered.

Ceyrabeth felt the moment shimmer with startling clarity- she could let him drown. Just stand and do nothing, walk away from the Phoenix Legion knowing that a dangerous man was gone from the world. There were two EXTREMELY horrifying creatures lurking beneath the depths- an excellent reason in itself to stay on land. But...

"Beth?" She barely heard Quinlan's questioning voice. A thought was screaming at the edges of her consciousness, drowning almost everything else out, a fact, a truth, unavoidable...

...She owed him. She owed him her life, and now Quin's too. She teetered on the edge of indecision for two ticks of a second and then...

"Maferath's flaming balls!" She exclaimed furiously before diving back into the vile, malodourous water.

It took three tries but Ceyrabeth finally came up triumphant. She hauled Sul up onto the bank, Tregan and Mathias helping her. "He's not breathing," Mathias noted. Ceyrabeth immediately flipped Sul onto his stomach and slammed both her hands down on his back.

"I...am NOT...breathing air...into your lungs!" She informed him between blows. "So you...had better...BREATHE, Maker damn you!"

Almost as though responding to her demands, Sul seized under her hands and expelled a gush of bog water from his lungs, following it up with great, hacking coughs as his body tried to rid itself of the foreign material. "That's it," Unconsciously, Beth ran her hand up and down his back in comforting strokes. "Steady..."

"That cut looks nasty," Mathias crouched beside her. He gingerly pulled cloth away from Sul's side and examined what looked to be a claw wound. Coward though he normally was, irritating and weak-willed, the second someone was injured Mathias transformed into a iron-spined, steady stomached, utterly exceptional field medic.

Beth threw him her pack and stood. "Patch him up," She commanded. He nodded acknowledgement but she didn't even see- she was already stalking across the short distance toward Atiya and Casper Pentaghast. "WHAT in the SEVEN HELLS was that?!" Ceyrabeth, delayed fear and rage pumping adrenaline through her veins, exploded with the force of a thousand suns. "You completely, utterly USELESS sacks of steaming druffalo dung! Traitorous, cowardly, weak-spined...that was your CAPTAIN out there! Your leader! And you were just going to let him drown like the moony-eyed, minstral maidens that you are...by Andraste's Ever Holy Tits, I could just flay you both alive...!"

"Violette..." The name was almost too soft, but somehow Ceyrabeth heard it through her tirade. "Violette!" Beth turned and saw that Sul had pushed himself up to a sitting position. He was facing her, and what she saw made the blood drain from her face. Mathias had removed the sodden bandages around Sul's eyes to keep filthy bog water away from a jagged cut on Sul's hairline, and Ceyrabeth caught full sight of the ravaged tissue that was the top half of the Captain's face. The sight, along with the pleading tone of his voice, drained the rage right out of her. "You shouldn't talk like that...in front of...the baby. Promise me...," The light caught his eyes and Ceyrabeth gasped.

Where his eyes should have been were dozens of tiny shards of colored glass that morphed into different patterns and reformed. The likeness of pupils and sclera would emerge, assembled from minuscule pieces of glass before they would swirl and then fade away to be replaced by alternate configurations. The effect was hypnotic as the prismatic shards spun transformed like a kaleidoscope.

It was bizarre. And alien. And _beautiful._

"Violette?"

His voice broke the spell and Ceyrabeth shook her violently to clear it; he was delirious. Beth turned her back on Atiya, who had stood like a deactivated golem under her onslaught, and went to crouch by Sul. Ignoring the fact that she had no idea who Violette was and there wasn't a baby anywhere in the Phoenix Legion that she remembered seeing, she reassured him, "I promise."

"Good." A brief smile flickered over his face, "She learns so fast now...remembers everything...Violette? Why can't I see? It… hurts, Violette!" He seized her hand, and Beth was completely unsurprised to find it already burning with heat from fever.

"It's time to rest now," Ceyrabeth patted the back of his hand gingerly, nodded when Mathias tilted a vial in Sul's direction. "Just relax."

"When will it stop?" Ceyrabeth felt the change like an electric charge in the air. One minute Sul was talking to the mysterious Violette and the next second, Beth would have bet her left arm that he knew exactly who she was

The honest answer was probably 'never' in Sul's case but Beth didn't have to decide whether or not to tell him that- Mathias waved the vial under Sul's nose and the Captain went limp. Ceyrabeth gingerly lowered him to the ground. "Red poppy," Mathias said to her questioning glance. "It'll help with the pain too, but not for long."

"Help me get him up," She replied. "Quinlan!"

"Here," The answer was a bit sullen in Ceyrabeth's ears, but she let it slide.

"I'm taking Eregost."

"The demon horse?!" Quinlan recoiled. Beth rolled her eyes.

"Out of all the things we've seen and _that's _what gets you?" She huffed, "Yes, the demon horse. Help me get him..."

"No."

Ceyrabeth's eyebrows almost hit her hairline. "No?"

"No. You may be willing to jump into a bog for your new Captain, but I'm certainly not going to do anything that will prolong his life span."

Ceyrabeth bit her lip against the explosion of fury that sent stars skittering across her vision. "Fine," She replied through the taste of blood, metallic across her tongue. "Then get your ASSES on those horses and ride to Lothering. Or are you willing to let them die too?"

Ceyrabeth saw the flicker of indecision on Quinlan's face before he nodded consent. "Lothering, then Denerim. What do we tell the Revered Mother?"

"The truth, of course."

The truth that would brand both her and Keiran traitors, that would spell the end of the life that she had worked so hard for. Quinlan's face softened with pity as he nodded again and swung up into the saddle of the nearest horse. Tregan and Mathias followed him. "Maker be with you, Ceyrabeth."

"And with you all." That was all she trusted herself to say. Beth turned to try and hoist Sul into the saddle...and found herself face to face with Ser Corellan. She had almost forgotten he was there- he hadn't panicked with the dragon or the horses, hadn't made a sound when the bog monster attacked. But there he was, silently helping Beth lift the Captain and depositing him gently on Eregost's back before swinging into his own saddle. He briefly clasped Beth's hand before riding away and Ceyrabeth knew with certainty that she would see Ser Corellan again.

But for now..."Let's take you home," Beth told the unconscious man draped in front of her. And with a loud "Hyah!", they were speeding off toward camp.

Atiya lifted the unconscious captain from the saddle as if he weighed no more than a child and carried him back into his tent. Ceyrabeth moved to follow, "No," Atiya said tonelessly, "I will tend to him."

Ceyrabeth opened her mouth to object, "Listen-!"

The rest was lost as Atiya dropped the flap to the tent cutting the elven woman off.

"Bitch," Ceyrabeth snarled before stalking away.

The Qunari woman lowered Sul onto his cot, his glass eyes wide and unseeing as she removed something from her belt and placed it beneath his nose. The effect was immediate: he lurched straight up in his cot coughing. Atiya placed one massive hand on his back to steady him.

"Well?" Sul croaked.

"All transpired as you commanded," She reported, "Neither myself nor Casper interfered when your life was imperiled. Ceyrabeth took it upon herself to rescue you after accosting us both," She shrugged.

Sul nodded as Atiya handed him his onyx pipe, "I'm pleased to hear it."

"Who is Violette?"

Sul remained still for a long time. Then, "Where did you hear that name?"

"You were delirious and talking out of your head. Is she important?"

"She is neither your concern nor your business," Sul's tone was glacial as he lit his pipe inhaling deeply, "Are we clear?"

Atiya shrugged fractionally, "It would appear that Ceyrabeth passed your test."

Sul nodded and ran a hand through his gray hair, "The first of many."

Atiya tipped her massive head, "To what end?"

Sul's smile would have made the Qunari shiver if she were whole, "Why the only end that matters," He blew out a plume of smoke, "Victory: utter, complete and total."

Ceyrabeth bowled over a squire as she stalked away from Sul's tent. Whatever insults were hurled her way never penetrated the crimson fog around her vision and the roaring in her ears. She was furious and could not remember ever being more so. She had felt something during the battle when she saw Drachaen wounded that confused her, which only served to make her more angry—

She stopped dead. _Since when did he become "Drachaen?"_

She cast the errant thought aside and scowled harder as she approached her tent. If that manipulative son of a bitch thought she would just—

Without warning she was snatched up and spun in the air as a voice boomed in her ears.

"_Non più andrai, farfallone amoroso, notte e giorno d'intorno girando!_" A thickly accented voice sang, tossing the elf girl to and fro and around in circles in some bizarre combination of a waltz and a seizure, _"Delle belle turbando il riposo Narcisetto, Adoncino d'amor!" _She was dipped low and found herself bent over backwards staring at an upside-down version of the camp.

"Why, there's life in the young woman yet!" The booming voice called out and Ceyrabeth was yanked forward so hard it nearly caused whiplash and deposited onto her feet. She managed half a step before pitching forward. With a supreme effort she managed to keep her feet underneath her, even as her hand attempted to yank her blade from its scabbard. Then she got a look at the man and stopped dead, paralyzed by utter confusion.

He was tall with ebony skin and wore a wide brimmed white hat with gold trim. He was clad in emerald green leather breeches with matching vest that was cut so high his bare stomach was exposed revealing well developed muscles. Several earrings dangled from his ears and he was adorned with several straps and buckles around his waist and down both legs- all done in white and gold like his hat. Odd, low-slung holsters hung at both his hips which held a pair of strangely designed curved hilts.

He flashed a grin that could only be described as thoroughly roguish. Ceyrabeth was shocked to see that his teeth were filed to points and capped in iridescent purple which was almost certainly Nevarrite.

"Greetings and salutations!" The stranger gave a sweeping bow, removing his hat. His hair was an unruly combination of crimson Mohawk and white braids. A pair of horns, one broken off, extended outwards from his skull marking him as Qunari, "Ser Peloquin of Par Vollen, at your service!"

"Peloquin."

The foppish Qunari replaced his hat and peered past Ceyrabeth. She turned to look. Atiya and Sul were striding forward. The Captain showed next to no ill effects from his rough morning.

_One tough son-of-a-bitch. _Ceyrabeth shook her head ruefully.

"My dearest Lady Atiya, my love, my kadan!" Peloquin dashed forward and scooped her hand up in his, dotting it with several kisses, "Every moment without you was like an eternity of torment. We must not be parted again!"

Atiya stared at the man blankly and then removed her hand from his grip.

"Peloquin."

Peloquin's demeanor immediately became deferential as he addressed Sul, "My captain, I come bearing glad tidings: I'm pleased to announce our mission in Seheron was successful."

Sul nodded once, "Walk with me." The Qunari swashbuckler offered his arm which the blind man took and led him through the camp. Atiya following behind closely and at her beckoning hand, Ceyrabeth shadowed them from a distance. Peloquin and Sul began to converse as they approached a large group of men, women, and children that looked strangely out of place in the military encampment.

"We managed to acquire twenty slaves from Devon for just under a hundred sovereigns and—"

"_WHAT?!"_

Peloquin spun around, dropping Sul's arm and going for the curved hilts at his hips as Ceyrabeth came rampaging up to them, "You're a slaver?!"

Sul turned more calmly, "No, I'm not," He replied icily and gestured. Ceyrabeth focused and saw that several people were working to force metal bracers and collars off their throats, tossing them in a pile of rusted metal.

"You're….freeing them?" Ceyrabeth asked stunned, "But.."

"I do not keep slaves," Sul replied, "Not now, not ever. They are free and will be offered food, sanctuary and an offer of employment in the Legion."

Peloquin regained his whimsy as he reached forward and scooped up a little girl," Except for this one!" He roared playfully twirling the madly giggling child around in a circle, "I am going to take her to Orlais and make her my bride and we shall go to all the wonderful parties, eat lots of cake and dance all night! _Non più avrai questi bei pennacchini, quel cappello leggero e galante!_" Peloquin dipped and spun the girl like a top.

"The Legion?" She scoffed, "You're not seriously going to put a child on the front lines."

"An army consists of more than soldiers," Sul replied softly, his tone still chilly, "There is food to be prepared, arms to be maintained, mounts to be tended, supplies to be organized. All of this requires the support of hundreds of people," He indicated the former slaves with a nod, "People like them. They shall receive food and lodging as well as compensation and in turn they will do their part to support the Phoenix Legion."

"All except this one, Captain," Peloquin grinned around a mouthful of purple teeth, "Her and I have to get married right away!" He poked the little girl's stomach, causing her to giggle, "Don't we, my little princess?"

"I like cake," The child exclaimed.

The Qunari swashbuckler grinned wider, "So do I," He began to twirl the girl around as he began to sing again, "_Quella chioma, quell'aria brillante_-."

Sul stepped forward and grabbed Peloquin's arm jarring him to an abrupt stop.

"What's the matter Captain, you don't like cake?" Peloquin asked with a cautious expression.

Gingerly, Sul touched the little girl's inner thigh and brought his fingers back smeared with blood. Bringing the blood to his fingers he inhaled once and immediately stiffened. The air around him became almost palpable with menace, causing Ceyrabeth to edge away despite herself.

"She has been defiled," Sul stated in a black tone, rubbing his thumb and finger together, smearing the blood.

"That she has," Peloquin nodded, his tone still jovial in contrast to his stern expression.

"Where is he?"

Peloquin peeled his lips back into something that might have been a smile if it held any warmth and gently put the little girl on her feet, "Run now, go to mama," He smacked her backside lightly and she ran towards the group of former slaves. Reaching down, he picked large sodden bag, reached within…

…and removed a severed head from the bag. He casually tossed it to Sul who caught it. The head had been decapitated at the jawline and the flesh from his cheeks was missing, but the wide-eyed stare of terror was still affixed to what remained of his visage.

"Devon?"

"One of his lackeys who apparently cannot be made to follow our very clear instructions on the treatment of the slaves we procure."

Ceyrabeth was staring at the entire exchange with kind of a detached interest: it was almost as if after all that she had already seen, a severed head wasn't all that shocking.

"Where's the rest of him?" Sul asked.

Peloquin turned his head away and discreetly belched into his hand.

"Fair enough," Sul handed the head back to the Qunari.

"Whilst we're on the subject," Peloquin reached into his belt and removed a pouch, "Orlesian Black Truffles from the markets of Seheron as requested."

Sul took the bag from him, opened and gingerly placed his nose above the bag and inhaled deeply. An intensely satisfied smile crossed his lips.

"The Captain's table eats well tonight aye?" Peloquin asked grinning.

"Indeed," Sul replied, "I shall make certain to include you in the festivities."

"What is it you plan on making again?"

"Once we settle in? Lamb Tenderloin served skewered with a roasted garlic glaze upon a bed of Dalish Wild Rice," He held up the bag, "Accompanied with these."

Peloquin licked his chops, "To die for."

Sul handed the bag to Atiya and then frowned, gingerly sniffing the air.

"Is something wrong, sir?" Atiya inquired placidly.

"A scent," Sul frowned, "Something….familiar-."

And with a roar of rage, a hooded man burst from amongst the former captives, "Astia valla femundis!" He slammed his fists into first one guard then the other and leapt over them charging Sul head on.

"Captain!" Peloquin cried out. Ceyrabeth tore her blade free and moved to intercept the lanky attacker.

Sul simply held up a hand and the man jerked to a stop, completely paralyzed. Ceyrabeth felt something akin to an electric shock run through her body that was so intense, she dropped her sword from her suddenly numb hand.

"There is no need for that," Sul stated calmly as he approached the now paralyzed attacker. Ceyrabeth bent stiffly to retrieve her weapon as she scrutinized the other man, whose muscles were trembling violently, straining against whatever enchantment Sul had used on him.

Sul removed the man's hood to flashing green eyes embedded into angular features and pointed ears.

"Well, well," Sul mused as he examined the strange silver lines that adorned the elf's arms lightly tracing them with a single finger. The lines began to glow and a strange humming sound filled the air that set Ceyrabeth's teeth ache, "…what have we here?"

Sul looked up from his examination and smiled with a predatory pleasure, "It's been a long time…little wolf."


End file.
